Seychelles
by ficdirectory
Summary: The team takes a vacation together...but what happens when they are taken over by modern-day pirates? Written for Tara621. WARNINGS: Physical abuse, addiction. **Nominated: Best Work in Progress in the 2011 Criminal Minds Favorite Fic Awards at LiveJournal**
1. Over: Emily

The sea is dark and terribly quiet. JJ has disappeared from view. For a while, she could be seen in the water, being dragged behind the boat, but no longer. We have stopped trying to overpower the men. When our intent became clear to them, they grabbed JJ. They tied her wrists and put her in the sea. As terrifying as it's been to see her being towed behind us, it's worse still to lose sight of her.

For all my skill at languages, theirs is one I have never learned. Though they speak English, I think it would be helpful to understand their native tongue, instead of solely their body language. But, I remind myself, 95% of communication is nonverbal. What are they saying? Well, it's simple. Their smiles - their laughter - it leaves little room for doubt. They are enjoying the hell out of this.

"Where is she?" Garcia asks, terrified, but somehow braver now that there is a necessity for information.

"Gone. She is gone," the ringleader says. He smirks, waving his gun. "You will listen to us now?"

I see the shock on the faces around me, and for the first time, I feel it myself. I am the only one among us unused to losing a team member in this manner. They lost me. I never had to lose them. I was unconscious when JJ brought news to them that I never made it. I keep scanning the ocean, to see if there has been some mistake. But no. She is well and truly gone.

A shock goes through me, unlike anything I have ever known. JJ was my lifeline in Paris. She saved me. How, then, could we not save her when she needed us the most?

* * *

><p>The men jumped aboard in the middle of the night. Rossi had not wanted to pay the fee involved to dock the yacht he was chartering on their vacation to the Seychelles. They dropped anchor instead, in open water. Consequently, this band of delinquents - of modern-day pirates - managed to take it over with no problem whatsoever.<p>

This has been the longest hour of my life.

It is instinct now, to keep notes in what I feel is my native French. Many languages have a basis in the romance language but chances are, not the one I am hearing.

_Night One_, I write in careful French.

_Mutiny unsuccessful. Lost JJ._


	2. Complicated: Hotch

It's dawn.

Ever since being jarred awake in the middle of the night by a group of strange men - pirates - who insist on keeping us for ransom - I have not been able to close my eyes. Each time I do, I am reminded of that first hour…of countless stupid decisions.

I thought we could overtake them. It was an equal ground - a one-to-one ratio. Seven of them. Seven of us. Emily and JJ would hold their own, definitely. Penelope promised to do her best at fighting. She promised to take the little one, even though she didn't believe in fighting. They'd leave Reid a lanky one, as well. Then, myself Rossi and Morgan would handle the three largest.

We had no weapons. They had plenty. But they hadn't trained them on us since the first moments. The first thing they did was demand to take a shower. The next was to go through our wardrobes and try on our clothing. While their guard was down, we put our heads together and come up with a plan.

"If we're gonna do something, we need to do it now," Rossi had urged in a whisper. "When their guard is down. When they're separated."

We split up soundlessly and went looking for whomever we could. I found one in Rossi's room and set about trying to neutralize his threat. A few minutes into the attack, bottles were breaking. The image of Emily at the bar, breaking them over the head of her target, flashed through my mind as my subject fought savagely. Then, JJ screamed.

Then, there was a splash and the yacht started to move.

My head was knocked back by a brutal blow and I was immediately forced to the deck to watch what was unfolding. I scanned the faces of my teammates - now bruised and bloody in the dark - and immediately saw the fear in their eyes. Belatedly, my gaze traveled to behind the boat. JJ was tied at the wrists, being dragged behind us. She was trying for calm. I could see it in the way the moon lit up her face. She was trying to time her breaths.

There was nothing but this incredible silence as JJ sputtered and struggled to stay afloat. Our captors were once again armed, and we had seen firsthand, the level of their brutality. Then, suddenly, there was no rope. JJ had disappeared.

"Where is she?" Garcia rasped. Her subjugator rubbed his eyes. Unbeknownst to me, Garcia carried mace. I could see it protruding from the pocket of her pajama pants.

"She is gone," JJ's pirate says, grinning. He gesticulates with his gun toward the water.

* * *

><p>That quickly, we are six instead of seven. There is no time for grieving. We have to survive. We need to stay alert. By now, we have arrived at an island. Inexplicably, they are insisting on feeding us well. We have goat livers for breakfast. My stomach cannot handle food, but I know if I want to stay alive, I have to eat. If JJ were alive, she would want us not to give up.<p>

"Mmm," Reid says, sampling the liver as if it's a delicacy, from down the beach. "This reminds me of Sashimi." I watch him take in the confusion and shock all around him. Then he clarifies, "Sashimi is a Japanese delicacy of raw fish sliced into very thin pieces. In fact the word _sashimi_ means 'pierced body,' and-"

"Reid. Stop," Morgan says, clearly subdued.

Ignoring them, I incline my head toward Rossi, who sits near me. "How much knowledge of this kind of thing do you have?"

"Not enough…" Rossi says, regret heavy in his voice.

From nearby, Emily speaks up. She startles me, by addressing Rossi in Latin. A language I have little command over. Still, it's smart. Chances are, these criminals don't speak Latin.

While they talk, I glance down the beach again, subconsciously scanning my surroundings for any sign of JJ. Instead, I see Garcia, doubled over in the sand. The liver is not agreeing with her. It's not agreeing with any of us, except Reid. And, I suspect, JJ's loss is hitting her - as most things do - harder and sooner than the rest of us.

"May I speak to her?" I ask a man who is wearing my shirt, and my watch. Who smells like Derek's cologne.

"Yes. Speak with her. Tell her eat. You like more, we give you more."

"Thank you," I respond, hoping he doesn't notice my grimace. I won't be asking for more. The sickeningly large portion is already sitting in my gut, undigested. The unpalatable texture is a terrible memory, but one I choose to focus on over the heartache of losing JJ.

I approach Garcia slowly, seeing the mace still clutched in her hand.

"Are you all right?" I ask gently, and feel inadequate. Obviously, she isn't. None of us are.

"No, sir," she says, looking pale and beaten. She has a cut over her eye and a bruise on her face. I wonder how I could have missed these things.

"Listen. We need to stay together, and we need to stay strong. Understand?" I drop my voice. "Keep your mace. And keep your eyes open for opportunities to send any kind of message to get help."

"I keep looking for JJ…" Garcia admits, her voice low and distant. "I keep, like, waiting for her to just walk up the beach with some kind of rescue. I kept this…so she has to come back for it…" Garcia confides, showing for a second, the necklace she is wearing, hidden underneath her pajamas.

I recognize it immediately as the one JJ showed me herself on a case two years ago in Wyoming. I know it holds special meaning for her, and I wonder if Garcia knows the same. Just then, she opens the heart-shaped locket and looks at the picture I never knew was there.

"They looked alike…" Garcia muses.

I squint in the sun, seeing the dated picture of a girl similar to JJ in every way. She's a teenager with crimped hair and big bangs that I remember Haley having in high school. Garcia is right. She and her sister looked very much alike. A sudden heaviness settles in my chest at the thought of the two sisters, and my ex-wife, out there somewhere…

"Well, at least…maybe…they're together," Garcia whispers, as if reading my thoughts.


	3. Homeless: Garcia

It is day three and the goat still tastes hideous.

It is hard to be homeless in a place like this. We have no place to call our own. No chance of returning to the life we knew. Not unless, by some miracle, the ransom comes through. Otherwise, we could be these people's pets for far too long.

Don't get me wrong. Boredom has not, by any stretch, taken over the grief we feel at losing JJ. It hurts like a physical pain. After that first day, with Hotch, on the beach, I can't look at the picture in the locket anymore… It's just too hard. Two sisters meeting untimely deaths? How fair is that? I can't wrap my mind around it. I've been sick for days.

Yesterday, we spent trying to stay together. The pirate-crazies had it in their heads that after what happened to JJ, we would somehow voluntarily separate ourselves from one another. But we wouldn't. Without a second thought, Derek tied himself to me. He was sweaty and shirtless and in any normal circumstance, I'd be a happy woman, but I digress. Emily whipped out handcuffs from who-knows-where and cuffed herself to Rossi, who looked stunned. Rossi is wearing a tee shirt and shorts and I'm still trying to recognize the man I know in all the dirtiness and bruises. The thought that Emily looked born to be shipwrecked made its way through my head before I could stop it. She was dirty and beat up, and there is palpable fear in her eyes. At the pirates demand to put us all in different locations, Hotch kept shoving Reid behind him, and going deeper into this totally creepy cave they discovered. Hotch has developed a hunted look and a limp. Reid appeared gaunt and sleep-tossed, despite gorging himself on the Sashimi-goat.

Now, the Malevolent Seven have finally left us alone.

If I were my chipper self, and these bad guys were mere images on my computer screen, I might make up names for them. Oh, who am I kidding? I made up names for them. I can't help it. It feels like we've been trapped here for months not days. There's nothing to do but be terrified and sad. I can't do that all day.

So, let me draw a mental picture: Mr. Despicable comes first. The one who tied JJ up, and…. Well, it's obvious where I'd get his name, isn't it? His skin is the same beautiful darkness like all of his comrades, but he has hard eyes. No eye-patch. No parrot. Trust me, there is nothing friendly about this band of thugs. Instead of any storybook pirate paraphernalia, Mr. Despicable carries a gun. I don't believe in guns and I try not to look at it but it is super large and frightening. He is strong, and - I am fairly certain of this - he has no heart. Then, there's Little Guy, who is gorgeous, and tiny - probably just a teenager. He's still ticked at me because I sprayed him with mace. He gives me a lot of space now, but glares often. There's Shower-Power, who likes to be clean, and Death-Breath whose teeth are probably all rotting. Shower-Power was surprised by Emily in while he was cleaning himself up after they jumped aboard. Hotch's Evil Twin is, for some reason, still dressed in Hotch's clothes. This might be the most disturbing sight of all. Death-Breath, it seems, has a conscience, and has been forcing Evil Twin to give back some of Hotch's belongings. Captain Hook is what I like to call the head honcho, and Smee is his sidekick. Hook does the negotiating. He is in charge of everything. He has as large a gun as Mr. Despicable, and he likes to dress up and be fancy. Smee doesn't say much. He cooks our food. He keeps a pointy stick beside him to jab at people who get too close.

Though I have given them humorous names, there is absolutely nothing funny about this motley crew. They are truly frightening. They all have large guns that they point at us with frequency. They are by turns engaging and terrifying. That makes it worse for me, because I don't know what to expect, and I love being in control of my surroundings. That's pretty impossible here.

I cradle my sick stomach and make my way over to Emily and Rossi, still cuffed together. I've been so out of it, I haven't noticed.

"I think I have sun-poisoning…" I moan.

"Well get in the cave then!" Emily snaps. She is short-tempered, especially when she speaks to Rossi in other languages.

"What did you do with the key?" I ask quietly, because I can't think to ask another question.

Emily makes a strange gesture and my eyes grow huge behind my glasses. "You _ate _it! God, Emily! Do you know where that's _been_?" I ask, feeling my stomach roll again.

"Doesn't matter where it's been…" Rossi answers matter-of-factly. "It matters that we know where it is now…and they…" - he points to the men - "don't."

I find Reid in the cave, like a hermit or a bat. He is crouched near a wall, making diagrams in the cavern stone. I can't tell what he's carving with. What he's drawing. It doesn't matter.

I miss JJ.

I clutch the necklace to my chest and remember the countless times I've seen JJ do the same. It's different than the loss of my own parents. It's a different kind of loss. My parents were older when it happened. I could blame myself and punish myself for their loss, because it was totally my fault. But I can't punish the band of buccaneers that has taken over our lives, without risking my own.

It's been three days, and already, we have stopped speaking her name. We each feel to blame for her death. For the choice we made to split up and fight back alone rather than pairing up, which is what profilers do in the field. There hadn't been time to think that night. But, damn it, we should have. We should have thought. We should have reacted the way we did yesterday, with Derek lashing himself to me. Emily cuffing herself to Rossi and swallowing the key. Hotch shoving Reid deeper into a secluded cave to keep him safe.

But we learned this lesson at JJ's expense.

And I'm sorry. There are tears. God, I'm sorry.

"I miss her, too," Reid says quietly.

I've all but forgotten he is sitting in the dark, nearby.

But he has not forgotten me.


	4. Zoned: Morgan

Every time I close my eyes, I see it.

I have no idea what day it is. Three? Four? Time stands still here. Boredom comes quick, and I don't do bored well. I convinced myself that there was an up side to that. More time to sleep. It's been years since I've gotten enough, but this is a prime opportunity and hell if I was gonna let it go to waste.

But the problem revealed itself pretty fast. Every time I drop off, I plunge into this nightmare of the night they took us.

People don't call them what they really are. They didn't want the expensive yacht. They didn't want the cash we had on us. They wanted _us_. They're not pirates. They're kidnappers. This shit is no joke.

One minute, we were hanging out enjoying a beer and the next; they're being taken over by these assholes jumping on our boat. Okay, so it didn't really happen like that - we were asleep - but that made it worse…to be ripped from your drunk sleep and see a big-ass gun pointed at you…

But that's how it was. They got us all together. They demanded to use the shower and then went off to try on everybody's clothes. I kept wishing I had my gun. Kept seeing Emily's hand go to her waist, hoping for the same. There was a fear in all of us like when my team and me were caught unaware at my house one night last year. We barely made it out of there alive. JJ saved us then.

I met her eyes. We walked to each other. Myself in shorts. Her in tiny shorts and a tee shirt. "What do you wanna do?" she asks, crossing her arms, like she's not scared shitless. She eyes Rossi. Her gaze clearly communicates that Rossi is the trained hostage negotiator. We should default to him in this case. He and Hotch are already talking.

"We have to fight back," Hotch said quietly. I could see him trying to come up with a plan and fast. I saw him eyeing Garcia with some trepidation. Garcia had no field training. She never carried a weapon. I doubted she could hold her own.

"I don't believe in fighting….but I'll do my best, sir," Garcia promised, brave, and so unlike my girl. "I have mace," she confided. "So, I'll take the little guy, and you all divvy up the rest." I can see she is scared. I can see the tears on her cheeks that she probably wasn't even aware of yet.

Then, Rossi had spoken. "If we're gonna do something, we need to do it now. When their guard is down. When they're separated."

That was it. There wasn't time for anything else. I went in search of the biggest son-of-a-bitch I could find - armed with bottles from the bar and a pocketknife I still had on me from fishing earlier in the day. I'd slit that bastard's throat before I'd let him hurt my team.

I found the one in charge. He was bigger than I gave him credit for. And he promptly kicked my ass. He looked like he could have killed me with one hand if he wanted. He had been the one who had announced their presence. He was well on my way to dispatching me, when he caught a glimpse of JJ's blonde hair in the moonlight. When he heard her call to him.

"Hey!" she exclaimed. Her voice was shaky but she stood firm.

He was done with me like that. He had JJ in his sights and that was that. Of course, I tried to stop him, but he leveled that damn gun in my face and I froze. He was just crazy enough to pull the trigger. I tried to stand but pain shot through me. My ribs, my back, hell… Everything hurt. I kept my eye on JJ. I was about to toss her my knife, having watched her move deck furniture in odd configurations to trip up our perpetrator.

Just like that, he ran at her, took out a length of rope and bound her hands, and then tossed her overboard. She had screamed. She had fought back. But it hadn't made a damn bit of difference. If this piece of shit could lay me out, then I knew he'd have no trouble with JJ. Actually, I was glad he hadn't decided to kill her outright.

But then, the boat started to move. Hotch rushed up on deck and to the rail to look over. "JJ, stay calm," he said. Blood poured from his nose, but he didn't seem to notice.

Reid lunged for the rope and the pirate with the long pointed stick jabbed him with it. He kept trying but it was no use. I couldn't move to see what was happening. But all of a sudden, Garcia, standing in her nightclothes - mace obvious in her pajama pants - called out in a choked voice, "Where is she?"

"She is gone," the one who beat the shit out of me said. He said something about how we'd "listen now" or something, but I was in too much pain. Later, Rossi gave me the details. How the rope and JJ had suddenly disappeared from view. How we kept moving, leaving her stranded, probably sinking.

I can't think about it without guilt. Without feeling like, I should have defended her, not the other way around. But it's too late now.

So, I stay alert, trying to determine exactly where we lost JJ. I wander the shores, keeping close enough to Garcia, with my own rope that I can get to her if need be.

I am determined that if anything should happen, at least, this time, we will be together.


	5. Tangled: Rossi

We are back aboard my yacht, _Carolyn_. Named for my late ex-wife, she is beautiful and steady, gentle and knowing. Now, with these bastards on board, some of her splendor has faded. To keep sane, we remain together. Emily and I can't separate even if we wanted to. Thanks to her quick thinking, we are never more than a few inches apart, at best. In some ways, it's reassuring. In others, though, it's damn annoying.

Most of the pirates amuse themselves picking through and choosing among our things. The one with the foulest, rotting breath, makes sure that whatever his comrades take is returned to us. I think he might feel remorse, and then he intimidates Emily, threatening to shoot us both when she refuses to do what they ask. I don't know what they're asking, but Emily - with her talent at picking up languages - has learned a few key phrases.

She doesn't tell me what they want. She doesn't tell any of us. Her mindset is clear to me: the less we know, the better.

Because there is nothing better to do - they have made it clear they are not releasing us until they get several _billion_ dollars - I jot things down in my notebook that are relevant.

_Day: ? _

_Wind: Calm_

I stop writing.

"Do you mind?" I ask Emily, who is watching my process intently. "I can't write with you looking over my shoulder."

"Well my dominant hand is chained to yours at the moment. So, unfortunately, I can't keep accurate notes. Here, write this…"

She speaks a string of French words so dizzying that I set my pen down and stare at her. "Why French?" I ask, dumbfounded.

"Because!" she says, clearly exasperated. She drops her voice to a whisper. "If these guys can speak English, chances are, they can _read_ English."

"I know that, Emily. I'm just saying. Why not a language that I'm actually _familiar with_? Italian, for example?"

"Fine," she snaps, and switches seamlessly to Italian more fluent than even I can speak. I have to rush to keep up with the torrent of words. It doesn't take me long to figure out that she is documenting facts - as many as she can recall - so that if someone finds the notebook, and us, they will know what happened to us.

I try to keep my expression neutral as I write from the beginning. I document when the pirates climbed aboard in the early morning hours. I write about my part in eventually losing JJ to the ocean. I write about the subsequent days. Their wanting to split us up. I write about our refusal. Our time on the island. Eating goat livers and some kind of African-spiced spaghetti and rice that makes me miss home. It makes me miss my life.

The days are long. I haven't lost sight of the fact that these men are our captors and we are their victims, I see it as imperative to establish a trust between them and us. So, after I write pages of Italian documentation for Emily, I ask her to do something with me. The pirates are busy passing time playing some kind of card game and getting high. After observing them for sometime, I know that this makes them happy rather than irritable and I ask Emily to let us join them.

To my surprise, she agrees readily.

In my peripheral vision, I can see Hotch move to join us at the table, while Reid and Garcia look terrified, sitting behind the pirates, trying to appear interested in books and failing. I can't see Morgan, but he has made himself sparse.

I put my team out of my mind and instead concentrate on learning the rules of this new game. Our new shipmates are happy to teach us and we build a rapport by being awful at their card game. They enjoy beating us. I enjoy letting them, until I remember what they did to JJ and then I can't laugh along.

Emily can, though. Emily _is. _She's like a chameleon, changing with her environment to fit in, to survive. They take a liking to her as she tries out new African words in their dialect and offers to distribute cards so no one cheats. There is a flash of something in Hotch's eyes, and without knowing how, I know it's related to JJ.

Later, Garcia fills me in. Her voice is subdued as she fills both Emily and me in on the instance that occurred before either of us joined the BAU.

"Once, when Hotch was interviewing this skeezy serial killer, Jacob Dawes, JJ came in. She was his type. I watched the whole thing on my screens. Jacob Dawes challenged them to a game of Draw Poker. If Hotch won, Dawes would tell where he put the…remains of another girl. If Dawes won, he wanted to…touch JJ's hair. She said it was fine. She was so cool and collected. Just like she always used to be in front of the cameras, but this was different. She was…playing a part…and she was doing it to help this case. Playing right into this sicko's fantasy. Hotch won," she adds in case there is any doubt.

Emily and I exchange glances. At that moment, I can read her thoughts. She could never have guessed that she and JJ have this in common. That - at some point in their lives - they went into a dangerous situation and played a role to get information and answers from men who found them attractive. Some might argue it's part of the job, but it's different now. Now that we have lost one of our own. We've already been through his with Emily.

We can't be so lucky twice.


	6. Spirit: Reid

In case you're wondering, I'm doing my best to stay distracted by mundane things. I've tried to recreate my cave wall drawings but none resemble what I carefully etched in the stone. No one knows I also carved my name, and the date there, too. Just in case we never left. It may seem morbid, but to me, it just seems practical. I also calculate distances and try to determine exactly where we are, when we pull ashore after several hours on Rossi's yacht.

It is so difficult to be without JJ. For the first time, I understand what she must have felt when we were together in Atlanta, and I got taken. But at least then, she had hope I was alive. I have no hope of that. I saw her disappear under the water. I saw them continuing to drag her another few feet. I saw them cut her free and I watched her sink below the surface.

The only thing that remotely gives me comfort is the idea that JJ is still among us somehow. It's not rational, but it's how I cope. If nothing else, I fantasize that she's now the free one, and she can give us perspective we might be lacking. It's nice imagining her close to us, but it isn't the same as her being with us in the moments when we need to be together.

So, I pass time. I read. I get into long discussions with the people in this place, about whatever I can think of. I'm currently trying to learn all I can about their culture. I'm following what I can see Hotch and Rossi doing, which is to establish a rapport. It makes sense, and I am good at telling people exactly what they want to hear.

If it means we will be let go…if it means I will see my mother again…I'll do it.

On land, the people take care of us. It's bizarre. When gunfire erupts around us, they protect us, and I constantly remember that they are doing this for a price. They are keeping us safe so they can be paid a ransom for our release. But then, I wonder, what should they do instead? I read several books on piracy before we embarked on this vacation. They have no government. They are desperately poor, and there are no consequences internally for breaking the law. What should stop them from going into a lucrative career, of sorts, especially if there will be no consequences from their own country. Especially, if their own country will reap the benefits.

If this has taught me anything, though, it's that nothing is a sure thing, and answers aren't always black and white. I find myself thinking of Gideon, and the way he would always urge me to think outside the box. Now, my entire existence is outside the box, so to speak. I don't know how to reconcile it. I don't like resorting to guess work and intuition when it comes to my survival but right now, that's all I can do.

I pass time as best I can. I distract myself from the realities around me. I imagine being at home among my shelves of books Riding the train in to work. Flying in the jet. Cooking at Rossi's. But then I remember my anger at JJ and all the happiness in that memory simply evaporates.

I hope that, somewhere, JJ knows that I'm sorry. I hope she forgives me.

I look away from the people around me, who are chewing some kind of root, which makes them act high. It's easy to remember being held by Tobias and his urging that using substances helped cope. It certainly would make this easier to bear.

But then, I remember. I remember the look in JJ's eyes when I told her I had thought about using again after we lost Emily. I remember the one time in the last four years when I was brave enough to drive to her house instead of where I wanted to go. I remember how she helped me, and never judged me. How she simply held my hand, told me to squeeze, and offered to drive me where I really needed to go.

I don't always know what I believe in terms of spirituality. But I know there is something out there. Right now, that is all I have to hold onto. Right now, the spiritual realm has the familiar face of a friend, and so I concentrate hard. I imagine her here with me.

I imagine her squeezing my hand.

And just like that, there is a hand in mine.

"Hey… You okay?" Garcia wonders.

I look to the necklace she wears for JJ. Then, I look up at the vast African sky.

Just like JJ told me, I squeeze the hand in mine. I try to breathe. I think about all the people I would hurt, if I chose this easy road. If I just walked up to where Emily and Rossi and Hotch are sitting, near the group with their guns and their strange substances. But I take it a second at a time. Because I'm not sure I believe in God, I ask for JJ's help.

"I'll stay as long as you need," Garcia volunteers, though I haven's said a word.

Looking up…I can't explain it…I just get the sense that JJ is with us, still. It could be the trauma manifesting itself. It could be my own way of coping with the improbability of all of this. But whatever it is…I decide I'll take it.

"Thanks, I appreciate that…" I tell her, and together we sit in the dry air, in the sticky heat of this foreign land. Together, we hope. I watch her search out Morgan, who persists in isolating himself.

He keeps looking out at the water, and I know what he's doing. I know exactly what he's searching for.

I'm doing it, too. I won't stop.


	7. Lions & Lambs: JJ

The night I almost drowned wasn't my last.

Yes, they cut me loose. Yes, they let me sink. The yacht even motored away. But just as I felt myself sinking beyond the reach of a human grasp - just as the saltwater started to burn my eyes, nose and lungs - a second, smaller boat came up. At first, I thought it was good. I thought I was rescued. I thought they'd pull me out and I could tell them about the team…but it was another one of _them. _He was thin and muscular, with a long gun slung across his back and a creepy smile that made my skin crawl.

He pulls me to the surface, my hands still bound. For a while, I just choke and sputter, unable to do anything else. I can't see, but I don't know if that's from the saltwater or the pitch-black night around me. I lay on the wooden planks of the boat with my cheek resting against them. In that moment, I can't think of anything except how glad I am to have been pulled from the water. How glad I am to have something solid under me. I lay in a semi-shocked state, running my hand over the floor of the boat.

By the time I start thinking clearly again, it is too late.

"Where are my friends?" I asked, careful not to say "team" or any words that betray our working for the government. That will only make a situation like this worse.

He smiles and comes closer to me. He squats in front of me, where I have the full benefit of his odor. He smells like salt, sea, spices and body odor. My stomach rolls.

"_My _friends? _Take care_ of your friends. Your friends are not so lucky. You are the one we came for."

I want to be able to tell if he's lying but I can't. It's like all my skills are gone and in their place is this huge level of anxiety and fear. If he's right…if I _am_ alone, what are my chances? Who would know to look for me, especially if the rest of my team is compromised?

Instead of grief, I feel an instant, rising anger that has me on my feet quicker than I think possible.

Reason is far beyond me, as I imagine the crew of thugs tying up Morgan, Hotch, Rossi - the biggest threats first - and tossing them in the ocean as they had done with me. Then Reid. Then Emily. Then Garcia. Something breaks inside me. I hate this man with a hate I've never felt for anyone. His people have taken the team I spent last year trying so hard to get back to… They've taken my friends, who have done everything they can to survive the unthinkable - and dispatched them - as if they were nothing.

"You son of a bitch…" I growl. I lunge at him, my training telling me I had better disarm him before he decides to shoot me. For a few seconds we struggle. I hang from the rifle at his back, trying to pull it free. This is all it takes for him to toss me off him, as if I weight nothing, and then start reigning blows onto me from above. Instinctively, I protect my head. I try not to cry out, but the force of his blows is too much. My back is in agony, and for the first time, I realize, he's on something. Regret pours through me with the agony in the moment before he hits me with the butt of his gun.

Pain radiates through my head, but I fall into a peaceful blackness.

When I start awake sometime later. I find myself on land. My head aches. There is some kind of bandage around it. Gentle hands touch me and I flinch, confused. These people killed my team. I'm alone. I'm at their mercy. I have no way of knowing their intentions, but given that they stole me off a boat, I can guess the odds aren't in my favor.

There is a light touch, and a woman's voice. There is gunfire all around me. I can't open my eyes, but I feel the weight of the woman's body as she braces herself over me. She's protecting me from whatever is happening. Wherever I am.

I try to speak but words are difficult to form. It takes all my energy simply to focus my attention and I hurt. God, I hurt. My entire body feels swollen, and my insides still somehow feel like they are burning with saltwater.

Everything is hazy and confusing. Like a nightmare, though, one thing remains clear. The fact that I am completely alone. My team is somewhere else. All I can do is survive. But I wish they'd kill me.

Death would surely be better than this. At least, if I died, I would know people there… My sister. My friends.

In a flash, I think of Henry, at home. I think of Will. I can't leave them behind. I have to live. But God, if I could find a way, I'd love to take myself out of this. Just to see the guy's face that pulled me aboard his boat, the guy who beat me… I get a small amount of pleasure imagining that. Until I realize that if I kill myself, I won't be able to see his reaction. That's the only thing that stops me, though.

I would love to be free like them. I would love to see my team again. But there is no way. We've had too many lucky breaks. To receive another would be unthinkable.

The soft touch again. The gunfire has stopped. I still can't open my eyes. I don't know where I am, or who is touching me. I don't know who means to beat me senseless and who doesn't.

A whimper escapes and I try to roll away.

God, I miss my team…


	8. Neverland: Emily

_It is day fifteen, and I am lost. I am grieving. But more than all those things, I find, it's the boredom that eats away at me the most. There is absolutely nothing to do here. For the first couple of weeks, I tried to pay attention to what they were saying - to learn the language - or at least key words - but now? It just seems pointless._

_I've been sick every day. The goat stew that we are eating now is upsetting, even for me, and I have tried international cuisine. Probably, though, the injuries I sustained last year aren't helping matters. I already had to give up drinking coffee, but I can't afford to stop eating altogether. Better to eat and be sick than not eat at all. The water we drink is stored in diesel cans. It has a distinctly unpalatable taste, but again, it is better to stay hydrated than to risk the alternative._

_There is a lot of time to write now, because we have little to occupy ourselves. They have cut our handcuffs apart, so that Rossi and I are no longer tethered to one another. There is a relief in that, but a fear, too. If they have decided to separate us, what else might they have decided to do to us that we have no knowledge of?_

_We have all but stopped speaking to one another. Not because we are angry but because we find that very quickly, we have run out of things to say. Conversation topics are now hoarded like precious jewels and brought out only at certain times, when we expand upon them for as long as possible._

_JJ's loss still weighs heavily on me. Every time I flip past the entry I made on that first night, about the mutiny, my stomach drops. I feel it inside - in an empty place - where I keep my most private thoughts. We don't talk about her. Our captors, it seems, have forgotten all about her._

_They keep very busy. They live their daily lives and are creative when it comes to meeting their own needs. When they are bored, they put on a kind of talent show. It's something different, so we gather around to watch. When they try to best each other in physical strength, it is so abysmal that Derek volunteers to compete in that category. He beats them all by a large margin, and they are good sports about it. They take a liking to him. He does not reciprocate. Derek is guarded, as he always is. _

_Derek has always had good instincts about people. And these people, who act as our friends one day, the next are threatening us with imminent death. Those days, we keep an especially low profile. I meet Garcia's eyes and she looks terrified. Reid, Rossi, Hotch and Morgan are wearing expressions of fear and bewilderment. When shots ring out, we don't think. We stay low. _

_We go to each other. We cover each other, as we have always done. Rossi's body lays heavy on mine and I am afraid for a time that perhaps he has been hit with something. But no. We are all somehow okay. Well, all except JJ…_

_While all of the men on "our" side go around admiring the bullet holes in various places, Rossi rolls off me. He looks afraid as I have ever seen him. He doesn't speak. I find my gaze drawn to his wrist, where the handcuff still hangs with its partial chain. I have a matching bracelet on my opposite hand. They have tried to separate us, but it hasn't worked. He is still covering me. Derek is still there for Garcia. Hotch and Reid stay close. _

_This is the most excitement we've had in several days. I'm ashamed to even refer to it as such, but our days are so empty of anything else. By nightfall, we are quiet. Instead of talking, we sit apart from each other. Instead of planning an escape, I am staring up at the night sky, thinking of home._

_Since this is private, I can confide this truth: I don't mind being here as much as some. Maybe it's because I've traveled a lot. Maybe, it's because I've had to adapt many times over to many different circumstances. Whatever it is, I find that I am okay with where we are now. Not that I enjoy our predicament. I don't. Trust that. The thing is, as long as I am surrounded by my team, I am secure. If not for JJ's loss, I would feel 100% as if we will get out of this._

_After today, though, I am not so sure. Maybe, we will all end up like JJ… Maybe that's better. I'm blinking tears out of my eyes. Doing my best not to make eye contact with my team. If they know I am upset, they will start losing hope. That's the way it works with us. We balance each other out. We encourage one another._

_But now all I find myself thinking of is a story I read as a child. Of boys who stayed children as long as they stayed exiled in a far-off place and stayed out of the way of an evil captain. It's not so unlike our situation. Except, of course, that this place is nowhere near as lovely as theirs. The boys in the story had a refuge. They had a hero who loved them enough to come back for them. To fight for them._

_What do we have?_


	9. Milking It: Hotch

We've been here forever, it seems, when Reid gets ill. If he is feigning this for the pirates' benefit, he is more talented than I gave him credit for. When it begins, my mind starts working. If Reid can keep this up, we might have a chance. We are near the shoreline and there are boats. Rossi isn't the only one who knows how to navigate on the water.

I don't want to directly involve any of my team; for fear that they may be implicated with me, if my plan should fail. So, I don't say a thing. I just wait for an opening and try to work up my courage. For the first time that I can recall since arriving here, I allow myself to think of Jack. I have steered clear of every thought of him, because I have needed to stay as optimistic as possible. Now, though, I need him to give me courage.

I need to try. And everyone else is petrified, after what happened to JJ.

Reid eventually staggers off to where we relieve ourselves - maybe to spare us the sound of his retching - maybe to give me a chance to make a break for it. One pirate goes with Reid, and the rest are momentarily distracted by some chatter happening on the radio.

So, I don't even think. I run. The sand is so hot it burns the soles of my feet, but I don't stop. This may be our only chance.

I make it to a boat and untie it from its post. I have taken a stick with me to use as an oar or a weapon - whichever is more necessary. The sail fills, and I rush below to navigate. But too soon, I hear angry yelling. I need to work fast, but all the gears look unfamiliar.

The winds are high though, and it's as if something else is trying to help me get as far away as possible. I can't think about my team. Their best chance at rescue hinges on how far away I can get. On what information I can relay on the radio onboard, and whether or not I have a frequency that is not tuned to other pirates. For a moment, I wish that Rossi had saved his own from the yacht. But there was no time. There was no saving ourselves so how were we expected to save anything else of value?

My mind is blank and racing all at once. I hear a splash and I know they are closer now. I don't have much time and I'm not thinking of what they will do when they catch me. I look desperately around for anything - an emergency flare - that might help the authorities in locating us.

I curse under my breath and wish I could lock myself away in a protected area - but there's no such place. With no other option, I take my chances and pick up the radio. I give the only distress call I know.

"Mayday! Mayday! This is Aaron Hotchner-"

That is all the farther I get, because I am dragged from the boat, through the sea, and back on shore with everyone else. I try to fight back, but it is pointless. Once I am with the others, I find myself in surrounded by my team. They look scared. They have obviously been told something I haven't.

My hands are tied behind my back. Then the blows start coming. I steel myself. They don't know that I have grown up with brutality. That this, for me, is endurable. I take it. They beat me for an agonizing length of time. Every time I meet the eyes of one of my team, I wish I could have succeeded. This is - without a doubt - harder on them than it is on me. Reid looks deathly pale, and now I'm not so sure that he was using sickness as a ploy to aid in my escape attempt. Garcia's a mess. Morgan has tried more than once to inject himself into my punishment.

"Come on, you bastards!" he goads. "Hit me!"

They don't hesitate. The sight is enough to break me. To give me insight I never wanted about exactly how it is for my team to watch me endure this. I tell myself I can do this. The pain will pass eventually. However, that is before I realize just how long the beating will last. They use fists and feet and the butts of their guns. It feels like this will never end.

When they are finished, I can hardly move. I can barely breathe. But I feel momentary victory. They haven't killed me. Then, I feel myself being dragged away from the rest of them. Then, I see that the rest of them are being separated, too. Rossi and Emily try to hang onto each other, but it is no good. They are pulled apart - all of them shouting instructions that sound more like terror - and I close my eyes.

We could endure this together, I have no doubt. Even after they lost JJ, I didn't lose faith in that. But now? All my training has left me certain that things just got a hell of a lot worse. I cannot be certain I will ever see my team again.

Maybe we'll make it for a few days, alone, but after that, there is no telling. Are we of value anymore, now that the pirates know we are prone to escaping? I don't know. Everything hurts, bone deep, and I do my best to think and become overwhelmed.

It is easier said than done, though. Because this is my fault. If not for my arrogant assumption that Reid was exaggerating his own pain solely for my benefit, we wouldn't be in this mess. We wouldn't be without each other now.

I curl up in the darkness of my secluded cave and try to ignore my agony. But it is all around me. There is no escaping it.

There is no escaping this.


	10. Separated: Garcia

This is my worst fear. Being separated. It makes me regret every single time that I isolated myself from everybody else. I shouldn't have taken their presence for granted, but I totally did. I forgot that anything could happen at any time. I guess I got pretty comfortable with the way things were, even though we were being held captive and had no idea when we could go home. At least we were together. Now I have no idea where they are.

Now, it's just me and Little Guy. I don't know how I always get stuck with the one who hates me the most. But I guess it's better to have him than Mr. Despicable, who I know is totally capable of scary and heartless acts. The others have given Little Guy a gun, which makes my mace a lot less intimidating. Mostly, I just sit and think. I'm afraid if I do anything else, Little Guy will get trigger-happy.

We're in a cave. Did I mention that? Because we are, and it's totally gross and creepy and people come by all the time, but none of them are people I want to see. I make myself as small as I can in the corner of the cave. Later, I decide lying down is better. Emotional upheaval makes me feel totally drained. As I am drifting off, I wonder what Hotch was thinking? I mean, I gather he was thinking we need to get out of here, so he thought he should take any chance we had. Still, if he was going to do something like that, he should have made double sure that the plan would be successful. Without each other, we are that much weaker. I close my eyes and try to concentrate on other things.

I dream of being home with Kevin on a Sunday when neither one of us had work. When we would lie in bed together for hours, each with our own laptop and tell each other the latest in world, local or entertainment news. Later, we'd watch "The Princess Bride" for the millionth time, or plan our trip to Italy - which we still haven't had the chance to go on - or join up as an unstoppable force and play hours of World of Warcraft. I think of the farm Kevin wants. The sheep with the black heads and the white bodies. I think that now, maybe, I could embrace a life free of technology, no problem. Isn't that what I'm doing now? Against my will, yes, but clearly it's possible.

Then, I think of the team. I imagine them doing totally awesome things, because I cannot bear thinking about what they might be doing now. I imagine hanging out at Emily's house and reveling in her countless paintings and how gorgeous they are. In my daydream, we use her cappuccino maker, and curl up with some obscure silent movie. I think of her throwing popcorn at me to keep me awake, and her little cat climbing all over me, looking for attention. It's nice, and feels homey and I wish I could be there. But I can't because I'm here.

I think of JJ next, a little ashamed that she was not the first person on my mind. What would she be doing if she could do anything? The answer is here before I know it. Definitely hanging out with Henry. He would be full of energy and wanting to show her all kinds of things that she's missed while she's been gone. Just for fun, I add Reid to the scene, and Will, and me. At JJ's I'm in the kitchen, arguing with Will about how much spice is too much in his latest Cajun recipe. JJ's got the football game on in the living room, while Henry's brought out a million action figures. Reid is trying to predict the likelihood that the Washington Redskins will score another touchdown. He remembers the single game he and JJ attended six years ago fondly, though he didn't know the first thing about football then, but JJ had taught him well. It isn't weird, with all of us being there together. It's nice. It feels right. I wish it were real. But instead of feeling sad, I move on.

Rossi's mansion seems the next logical choice. So, I think hard about it until I can conjure it in my mind. It's big, beautiful rooms and Rossi, who lives there all alone, with just a cute black lab, who chews through the wire of his kennel to make a hole just big enough for him to squeeze through, so he can be with his human. I lean down and pet the dog. My heart totally melts. I love dogs. They are the sweetest ever. Even Rossi's, who sniffs in impolite places and pretty much insists you never forget he's there for a single minute. At Rossi's, we sit and have a drink, and we talk about whatever he wants to. He tells me about hunting, which I'm not a fan of, but since it's something the dog likes, I listen. Rossi explains all the hand signals that the dog knows and insists on showing me all the tricks he can do. I watch. I'm totally content. I wish I could stay here all day. But my reverie is interrupted by an angry voice, giving me an order I can't understand.

I shake my head and try to focus.

"Don't move! Or I kill!" Little Guy insists, as he goes to the mouth of the cave to have a meeting with the others.

He doesn't have to worry. It took so long to get here. I'm exhausted. When I stand, dizziness hits like crazy. I can't imagine trying to run, especially after seeing what happened to Hotch…

My hands are up and the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. "I won't move, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die."

Damn it. _So _not the right thing to say to the teenage pirate with a gun.

"_I_ hope, too…" he says, and then he smiles.

A shiver runs the length of my body even though it's totally hot in here. I want to get lost in my fantasy and I desperately try to think about who is left. Who I have not put in a positive situation to balance out the horrors of this one.

At Hotch's, I don't go inside. I'm like Peter Pan, just looking in the window at a night when Aaron is home with Jack and he gets to do all the things fathers can do with their sons. He helps Jack with homework. They eat dinner together. Jack goes next door to play. Then, I knock on the door and invite myself inside to talk with him. I find out tons more than I ever have at work. He's relaxed and easy to talk to. He tells me he is training for a triathlon, but not to tell anyone at work just yet, because he isn't sure how it will work out.

Last but not least, I visit Morgan at his favorite property. It's on the last place I would expect him to have a home. Up in the north woods, on a lake. He has a big cabin that's decorated all man, with moose and fish and bears. I never imagined Derek as a hunter and I don't think he is, but there's something about the space I'm sure he finds comforting. He makes me feel at home, completely. He has supper in the oven. While we wait for it, we sit side by side on his giant couch and watch Cupcake Wars on the Food Network in front of the fireplace. Somehow, I find, I am able to feel content. Somehow, I feel full. I'm not craving water like a desert creature.

I glance out the window. In my cabin daydream, it's winter. There is snow on the ground and all the trees are bare, with snow glistening in their branches. The lake is frozen over, and I can see a snowmobile out the glass doors. All of it is a gorgeous sight that brings tears to my eyes.

This gives me more comfort than anything else does. And I find myself wishing that wherever my friends are right now, that they are able to find some way to cope. That they have found a way to be together, in spite of it all. Just as I have.


	11. Empty: Morgan

I walk for hours with the one that drowned JJ. I hate him with a visceral kind of hate that I've only felt a handful of times. I know this strategy. He's trying to exhaust me, so I'll have less chance of running, like Hotch did. Like Hotch tried to do, but didn't succeed at. Now, we're all away from each other and I hate not knowing how they are. Where they are. What's being done to them. At least, with JJ, I know. I know she didn't make it. Now, I'm just stuck wondering if the rest of the team will face the same fate…if I'll face the same fate.

"Water." I'm panting. The phrase 'dry as sandpaper' doesn't even begin to describe the state of my mouth. It's so parched there's no moisture anywhere. I'm done playing nice. Done speaking this bastard's language. And I'm beginning to think that Hotch had the right idea. Waiting obviously hasn't done us any good at all. Separation is definitely not a good sign.

My request is ignored, and he speaks the language I don't understand, but I don't need a translation. The body language for "get your ass in gear" is pretty clear. So, I keep going. I block everything else out except moving forward. It's damn hard. I have to go back pretty far

The only thing that works is imagining that I am on my way to get help. To find rescue. I tell myself that each step I take is one step closer to getting the hell out of here. I imagine finding everyone else safe and sound right where they should be.

After hours of walking, we come to a little shack. There's people inside and a radio, and for a split-second, I think I hear JJ's voice. It sounds tense and fearful, just like we all sound. The frequency is changed so fast I'm sure I must have imagined it. I'm dizzy enough to pass out right here, but water is produced, finally. I try to pace myself, so as not to pay for it later. Dehydration has serious consequences out in the middle of nowhere.

"Good news. Money arrive soon," the kidnapper dressed like Hotch and who still manages to smell like me despite days in the African desert says smiling.

"What does this mean?" I ask. My voice sounds a lot like the one I just heard. JJ's. I am tense and stressed, but try to keep calm.

"You and friends. Rescue."

From that moment on, I pour myself into whatever I do. If I'm lying on a mat, I make sure and rest up as much as I can. I try to eat the nasty food, knowing I will need strength for the journey later. I do everything I'm told. I don't leave anything to chance. I imagine my mom and my sisters for the first time in detail. Until now, I've kept them at a distance, not knowing if I would see them again. Now, though, I can't stop thinking of their faces when they see me. I'm just sorry they had to endure this not knowing.

It's only hours later and I realize that something is wrong. The Hotch kidnapper and all his cronies are hanging out as usual. No one has any urgency in their step. No one's acting like they're getting any money. My heart sinks. I think it might have all been a joke.

Then, one of them approaches me with a long-ass knife. "No money mean we kill you," he promises, not a trace of regret in his tone. Luckily, his friends talk him out of this, but I am very nearly wishing he had. Hotch got the shit kicked out of him. JJ's gone. The rest of us are separated.

I stare at the open sky, hoping the sun will burn me alive, but who am I kidding? I could never be that lucky. Instead I sit. I watch the horizon change and the night fill with stars. I imagine I'm back home. Chicago. DC. Quantico. It doesn't matter as long as it is anywhere but here. I'm done taking their shit, but I know it would be a mistake to fight back, so instead I close my eyes. The more I sleep, the more time will pass.

When I think of the rest of the team, anger pours into me. Whose idea was it to take a damn trip to the Seychelles anyway? I know the answer, but still! Didn't Rossi know that this was a possible risk? He had to know more than the rest of us that this kind of threat existed. But that didn't stop him from dropping anchor instead of paying to dock somewhere… Shouldn't one of us have gotten a clue that it wasn't the smartest thing to do? We should have, but we didn't.

Though I know it won't do any good to keep blaming, I can't stop myself. And if 'm blaming them, I know I might as well place blame on myself, too. I was perfectly capable of checking out our location in advance. I knew about the dangers in an abstract sense and I shouldn't have assumed that we'd be above them. But it is too late for regrets.

Half-heartedly, I think of escape. But I can't bring myself to try after what Hotch went through. I know that makes me a coward, but I don't care. I have no clue where I am except that I am alone. And that's not where I want to be right now. Imagining myself anywhere else is too painful, though, so I am stuck, sleeping in the rough, with a rock for a pillow and seriously armed guards with huge-ass guns. I take a deep breath, and with it, I accept this as my current fate.

For the first time in a long time, I think of my father. I wonder if, from wherever he is, he can give me the strength to face this.


	12. Ransom: Rossi

The men are getting pleasure out of playing with us and I'm losing faith that we will be rescued. It's not the only thing I've lost track of. The days. The chances we'll be saved. Since, pretty much daily, one of them tells me rescue is coming and it clearly isn't.

In an ironic twist of fate, I have become the one who speaks with those at home. My captor always speaks first to Strauss or whoever is on the other end of the call. Gives her very precise instructions not to volunteer information. He gives me similar instructions. The entire exchange is public, with my guy listening in. I could slip a message to her, I have no doubt, but the consequences are something I'm not willing to risk. Hotch is a good twenty years my junior and he's beaten severely for trying to free us. I imagine a similar torture for myself if I try any kind of subterfuge.

"Strauss?" I say, in the same tone I used when I told her I was coming back to work.

"Dave, are you all right?" she asks. Her voice sounds dim and delayed. There is static on the line.

"Fine," I answer shortly.

"Dave, we're having some trouble getting the money," she says carefully.

"I see," I answer, when what I want to do is demand why we have been repeatedly misled about the possibility of a rescue. "So, there's been no change?"

"They're impossible to negotiate with…" Strauss sighs. "They have no sense of American currency or realistic demands."

"So I've noticed…" I manage.

"How are you all faring? Are they treating you all right?" she asks and I cast a sidelong glance at my guy. He nods and whispers something.

"We're separated but we're all okay…" It feels wrong not to tell her everything. Not to tell her that JJ is no longer among them. No longer alive. It helps, though, that I can detect skepticism in her pause.

"I'll keep working on it," she insists.

Without warning, the call drops. It's common and frustrating. Without warning, my emotions surge. Now, Strauss is my only human connection. I have my notebook but that isn't the same as another human voice. My days are exercises in the mundane. I lie down. I get up. I eat. I wonder. I write. But nothing really changes.

When the sky darkens, I glance up, interested. The weather - that's interesting - and it's something my captor can't control, no matter how much he wants to. So I watch the clouds form.

I think about my team, and against my will, I think about JJ. I think about what an asset she would be in this situation. She ought to be handling these calls to the mainland; she would know what to say. She would know how to word things. I'm a hostage negotiator, but I'm also the hostage. It doesn't work both ways. JJ's job, though…it could…at least, her former job of liaising.

Hours pass, and I have nothing to do but think. It helps, I suppose, that I am solitary by nature. It helps, too, that I have no one back home who will miss me. No wife. No kids. Everyone who would miss me is here, somewhere, in this godforsaken place. I take comfort where I can. I am pretty positive, for example, that they are not killing us. Yes, there have been threats. But killing us would be stupid. Killing us would mean they would have nothing to exchange for the astronomical amount of money they are asking for. I wonder if Strauss or anyone in the office has thought of my bank account as a possible solution. It's of no use to me here, and without it, we won't have a chance in hell of getting out of here. I don't have the amount they're asking, but perhaps, I can use this time to talk them down. To lower our ransom, as it were. I decide, too, that on the next phone call to Strauss, I'll put this bug in her ear. If the government won't pay for our release, I will.

It's my fault we're stuck in this hellhole, after all. I know blaming myself won't do us any good, but neither will being tight-fisted. This is what I can do and this is what my plan is. I don't document anything; for fear that my guy has learned to read English. My hope is, my captor will allow the conversation with Strauss and I can't imagine a circumstance where he wouldn't, frankly. If it means money for him and his band of hoodlums, I'm sure he'll let me talk for as long as necessary. I only wish I had contact with the rest of my team, to ask them if it's all right to dip into their savings, at least theoretically. More money, more chance of escape. For now, though, mine will have to do.

I stretch out on the ground and try in vain to get comfortable. My back is killing me. My knees and feet. The trek we take each time to get close enough for cell phone reception is grueling.

I start to drift off and I know I won't sleep much, but I have to try. I have to be ready for tomorrow. It's been too long since I've had an idea. Since I've had any hope of getting us out of this. So, I close my eyes. I pray for myself and my team and that our captors and their enemies don't get a wild hair and decide to kill us. I pray that, if we are rescued, none of us are casualties of chaos like JJ.

I hope, when we're saved, that we'll be able to go back to some semblance of a normal life. I don't know if it will be possible, but it's nice to hope. It's necessary to hope. Because, right now, hope is all I have.


	13. Village: Reid

When we are reunited, I am so sick, I cease to care. Maybe, it's my failing health that is moving things along, but for whatever the reason, my pirate heaves me over his shoulder and walks me to his desired location. When he sets me down, after what feels like miles of travel, I feel I might pass out from the head rush.

I cannot even muster the strength to be happy when I glance around, feverish, and discover Morgan, Rossi, Hotch, Garcia and Prentiss surrounding me. Hotch still looks battered. My unfiltered thoughts convince me that he has likely been forced to walk from wherever he was being held. Garcia is touching my forehead. They try to get me to drink, but I'm positive the water is responsible for the horrid state of my digestive system. Then again, dehydration won't do me any good, either. None of the rest of them are sick. Maybe my body is just reacting to the stress of the situation, but I can't even think clearly enough to reason.

If their appearance is any indication, I must look horrendous. They are all tattered and dirty. Hotch is swollen and bruised. The ladies look sick, sad and traumatized. We've all lost weight. I know because I haven't been able to keep anything down, and it's getting more and more uncomfortable to try and sleep in any position, even on a mat. Hotch is absolutely gaunt. Garcia's lost her soft edges. JJ and Emily are both sinewy and strong. Rossi appears old and somehow deflated. Morgan, it seems, is the only one who has managed to maintain his physique.

When she appears, she is like a mirage. There is a gun at her back. She keeps glancing over her shoulder. I wonder if I've died. That can be the only rational explanation for seeing who I'm seeing at this moment. But then Garcia gasps her name, and Hotch goes pale.

"JJ?" Morgan manages.

She has to be a mirage. We watched her drown. I reach out to make sure she is solid. The pirates are chattering excitedly and this is good, because I feel death is imminent. When she clasps my hand, I nearly faint.

"What's wrong with Reid?" JJ asks, like a dream. Vaguely, I register her swatting my hand away.

"He's been sick, since we lost you," Prentiss explains.

Garcia tries to pour water in my mouth and I nearly gag. There have been things in the canteen before. Small animals. Lizards. But I try to keep my composure. It won't do any good to vomit again.

"What's happening?" JJ wants to know.

"No clue. I thought you knew," Rossi says. "I got word to Strauss about some funds that could be used to remedy the situation but I can't imagine that they could have come through this quickly," he insists.

"JJ, God, we thought you were dead…" Garcia manages.

"They told me the same about you guys…" she admits, her voice soft and sad.

We are our own little village again. But this time, instead of pairing off, we remain in a tight bunch, refusing to be separated. JJ has confessed they exploited her background in media liaising and used her to communicate demands to the United States. It seems absurd. She seems too tough to simply give into something like this, but I can see a nasty scar on her forehead. Suddenly, her compliance makes a lot more sense.

"It _was_ you I heard on the radio…" Morgan manages, awe in his tone. "I swore I heard you, but thought I was just imagining things."

"No… It was me…" she says. It sounds like she is trying to smile.

We are all just grateful to have one another near again, when above us, everything explodes. We take shelter in the cave behind us. Morgan dragging me.

"What does this mean?" Prentiss yells as we all do our best to stay down.

Of course, none of us has a clue. If they are like me, then we all must be hoping we survive this minute and the next. The gunfire is ridiculously loud. Bullets ricochet off the cave wall. I hope we don't die, but it might be easier than trying to survive another indeterminate amount of time with no resolution in sight.

One of the pirates falls, apparently injured, and then I squint out at the water. There are ships. In my delirious haze I hope they are for us. I hope whoever is on board is a crack shot and that they can successfully take out our six remaining captors the way they did the first.

Before we know what is happening the pirates are retreating into the cave. They each grab one of us. Human shields. That should ensure they won't get shot, but then again, they are expecting us to cooperate.

Rossi is the first to react. He is dirty, sweaty and tanned. Despite endless days here, he still has some fight left in him. He lands a well-placed elbow to the midsection of the pirate behind him. That's all it takes for Morgan take his pirate down, in one smooth move. Morgan also manages to get a hold of the gun and aims it at the pirates on the ground. Unfortunately, Hotch in his beaten condition, and me with my illness aren't as quick to fight back. I can barely stand.

I cut my eyes toward the ladies who are all cautious and cooperative. I know they won't fight back unless they are certain they'll get the upper hand. Otherwise, it's too dangerous.

From just beside my head, a shot is fired, and my hearing is blown. It's excruciating but I do my best to remain upright. I hope that the people on the ships know what they're doing. I think back, hazy, about other pirate rescues. About the use of Navy SEALS. And I hope that's who is there for us. If not, we are definitely in trouble.

If not, we will not make it out of this alive.


	14. Fragments: JJ

It doesn't take me long to figure out that the shoot-out isn't with any kind of rescue effort. It's with other pirates. This really pisses me off. I've been doing their bidding for months. I've been telling the public exactly what I'm told. I have never strayed from the script. I've labored under the delusion that the rest of my team was dead, when, obviously, they're not. It doesn't feel good to be on the other side of this lie. It sucks. I'm grateful they're alive, but God, it would have helped to know that when I was on my own.

Morgan and Rossi have no trouble subduing their pirates. I am trying to think of anything else, while at the same time, staying alert. I can't afford to let go of my focus now. My life depends on it. I am looking for an opening to kick the crap out of this asshole with a gun at my back, but with bullets flying around, I know it's too risky. Plus, this guy is the biggest. I know I must be valuable to them, otherwise, why wouldn't he have taken Morgan or Rossi hostage instead of me…

It's impossible to know who is winning the battle. All I know is, I want to get the hell out of here. I cut a glance sideways at Emily and then at Garcia. I try to communicate to them that if we're going to run, we have to make a break for it together, but they seem hesitant. Another glance toward Hotch and I understand. He must've tried to get away.

I think back on all the defense training I learned from Morgan. He is having no trouble pinning his pirate. I don't have the upper hand physically, and I don't have a weapon, but maybe I can do what I do best. Maybe I can talk my way out.

I'm half-a-second from speaking when the man behind me suddenly falls. It happens so fast that I can't make sense of it. I drop to the ground, beside the body that used to be my captor. It hits me that there are only calculated shots coming now. I risk turning my gaze outward and I see an old boat, like I was taken away on… The first looks unmanned. On the second, there are people. I can tell they're using all the action as a distraction - waiting until our captors' guards are down to take advantage and move in. I pray this will work. For the first time in months I have hope that I might be able to get home to my son.

In quick succession, the other four pirates fall. The first bleeds out. The two left standing are easy targets, and the two on the ground mistakenly rise. I want more than anything to rush out of the cave but I can't. My heart is racing and someone is covering my body with theirs. It takes a second to register Morgan without his cologne.

We move slowly out of the cave, relieved when the ship pulls up to the shore. We isolate ourselves in different locations. We are silent, except to thank the people who saved our lives repeatedly.

"Just doing our job," they say, like this is routine.

The journey back to the mainland is long. Several hours. I curl up and try to sleep - mostly to block out the sound of Reid vomiting. I wake to find Garcia next to me, staring at me as if I might disappear.

"I'm still here," I tell her, trying to smile.

She reaches beneath her shirt and takes out something. It looks vaguely familiar. "I grabbed it off the yacht, first thing. When I thought they were robbing us."

She reaches out to put it around my neck and I flinch.

"It's yours…" she coaxes gently and works the clasp hanging the necklace around me.

"Just so you're prepared, agents…" a new voice urges. "There's quite a bit of press waiting for you in Virginia. We're going to dock soon and have vehicles waiting. We'll take you to the hospital to get checked out."

"I can handle the press," I say succinctly, because if I know anything, it's this.

Once we hit land, we're all taken to the local hospital, despite my own reassurances that I'm fine. I, for one, have a clean bill of health, except for the scar on my forehead and the fact that I'm a little dehydrated.

After a quick, strained conversation with Strauss, she gives me the green light to speak with the press, since Hotch is in no shape to do this, and Garcia is too shaken up. By now, I know what I look like. Too thin, too tan, covered in cuts and bruises. But I take the microphone confidently and speak into it.

"My name is Special Agent Jennifer Jareau," I say. "For the last sixty days, my team and I have been held captive by modern-day pirates…" I pause, unsure of how much to say. I find myself used to the feeling of a gun at my back. Threats as I'm speaking. Say too much, and I die. Say too little, and I fear the same. "I'll take a few questions," I tell them, resorting to my default. If they ask, I'll know what to say.

I call on a familiar-looking reporter in the front row. "Agent Jareau, all of you were rescued, is that right?" he asks.

"Yes, that's correct," I confirm, clearing my throat. The artificial light in this hospital conference room is making me squint. Camera flashes startle me, but I do my best not to react.

"Were there any major injuries?" another voice asks.

"No, thankfully, we're all relatively unharmed," she answers. What would they think if they knew the truth? That the modern world feels foreign to me now. Sudden movements have me flinching. Sudden sounds have me hitting the deck. That the idea of sleeping in an actual bed brings tears to my eyes. That everything I see, from the bottle of water in front of me, to the pictures hanging on the walls, seems gratuitous.

I clear my throat and repeat, "We're all okay."


	15. Willow: Emily

The first thing that strikes me when I walk in the door to my own apartment is the excess. It struck me first in the airport, this feeling that I was in another world with too many colors and people and too much stuff, period. I walk through my own place, wrinkling my nose. Who actually needs four different kinds of flavored coffee? But the questions push their way to the front of my brain even at the most mundane of sights.

The sight of two towels hanging on the rack in my bathroom. I survived two months without _one_. My closet full of clothes seems ridiculous. Sergio has made himself scarce. I don't know if he recognizes me now. I certainly don't recognize myself. My time in isolation had been hell. Despite what happened to Hotch, I did everything I could to try to escape, and therefore, took regular beatings. I was reminded of Cyrus. Of Doyle. If they could not break me, I assured myself, neither could this man.

I was checked out at the hospital, but after some painful probing, they released me. Nothing seems broken, just incredibly painful. But I have dealt with pain before, too.

What I want, more than anything, is to crawl in bed and shut out the world. But as hard as I try, I cannot get comfortable. The bed is too soft and I am too sore. I close my eyes and see blue. I see the ocean. I cannot wrap my mind around all that has happened. If I were someone else, I might have called my team by now. The truth is, though, I regularly forget I have the option.

I have gone so long without the ability to freely do anything that this one luxury remains untouched and unused. I curse and thrash and scare the cat as I try to find a position that doesn't feel like agony. Finally, I give up and take a single blanket, spreading it on the floor. I lie down and I keep the light on my nightstand burning. This is the only way I can sleep.

* * *

><p>After sleeping for twenty hours straight, I get up. It's four o'clock on some afternoon. It is ridiculously hard to keep track of the time. I make myself some of the gourmet coffee, feeling sure my stomach will revolt. I force myself to eat dry toast first, and to do so slowly. My half a cup of coffee stays down, but it has the unfortunate side effect of making me jittery.<p>

I enter my bathroom and the scent alone is almost enough to bring me to my knees. It smells like lilacs and fresh air. It smells clean. And while I showered at the hospital, I realize that I would love to do so again, if it didn't mean I'd be faced with my horrible bruises. My malnourished appearance. Still, I feel like I should try. So I drop my clothes where I'm standing, and step into the shower. When the water starts, the sound makes me jump. The spray is too cold and then too hot. Is there no way to regulate the damn thing? It frustrates me to no end. Finally, I step out, just as frustrated as before. I don't smell of lilacs, and I get out of there, before rid the place of its wonderful smell. I close the door behind me to contain it.

I pace. I cannot close my eyes. My hand goes absently to my wrist. It feels naked without the handcuff that's been around it all this time. I have no evidence of it except a strange tan line there. Rossi, I know, has a matching one on his opposite wrist.

I turn on the television and instantly regret it. There we are, arriving in Virginia, looking like hell. There is JJ, trying to look as though everything is all right, though she is clearly not used to giving press conferences in the absence of automatic weapons. Staring at us - staring at the TV in general - is entirely too over stimulating. There are too many things going on and I can't focus. I wonder how I'll ever be able to do my job again.

When my phone rings, it scares the shit out of me. The tune it plays sounds mechanical and too loud in my ears. I search high and low until I locate it, in the phone-shaped pouch on my hip. It takes a second for my eyes to focus. To translate the picture of my smiling boss into something meaningful.

I press a button. "Hotch?" I ask.

"Prentiss," he returns, measured. "How are you?"

I pause for an obscene length of time, pondering this. I settle on a word, eventually. "Fine…sir," I say, adding the last word at the realization that we are no longer on equal footing. We aren't both captives, we are free. We are free and Hotch is my boss. The incongruity strikes me.

"Good," he says, clearing his throat. He knows I'm lying. _I _know I'm lying. I don't know why both of us are bent on pretending.

I wonder what Hotch would think if he knew that right now I am the farthest thing from fine. That my body aches but I cannot find adequate words to tell him about what happened to me. The closest I can come to expressing myself, ironically, is to personify things in nature. But a cloudy sky and a blanket of snow don't adequately describe it.

Hotch is still silent. I wonder if he is thinking, too. About how we'll cope in this new world, where everything is too artificial and excessive, too electronic and…I look around at my monstrous apartment…just plain too big.

Just like that, an image comes to me. A tree whose bent branches form a dome to hide beneath. A tree whose leaves brush the ground.

And I realize that I am not fine.

I am a weeping willow.


	16. Quirks: Hotch

I have been free for two days. It's not long enough to acclimate to the changes in the everyday world, but Jack forces me to face mundane tasks like packing his school lunch and going over his report card with him. Almost everything on it indicates exceptional work, except the grade for math - which is a subject Jack has always struggled in.

"Can you sign it? So my teacher knows you looked at it with me?" he asks. He has been careful around me. Cautious. It's the opposite of what I had assumed actually. Jack is anything but clingy. He is watchful, like he doesn't know what I might do. I don't know if it's my changed appearance - my gauntness certainly hasn't helped things, and I shaved the beard immediately upon returning home, when Jack took one look at me and burst into tears, unable to recognize the skinny man under two months of facial hair.

"Of course, buddy. It looks like you've been working really hard while I've been away. I'm very proud of you." I tell him, and he eyes me suspiciously. I know he's thinking if this were two months ago, I would praise quickly and seize on the subject that needed improvement.

"What about math?" he asks uncertainly. He has grown so much in two months. He has grown, and I have missed it. There's a gap in his mouth where he has lost a top tooth. He looks a taller to me. I shake my head, and force myself to focus.

"Well, your teacher says here that you're putting forth a great effort and your tests are getting better. You're turning in all your homework. It's just something we have to keep working on, okay? And we will."

"You'll help me?" Jack asks, a little skeptical. I'm sure he's remembering the last time I attempted to help him with first grade math - counting money, I believe - when Jack ended up in tears because I snapped at him.

"I will," I promise. "Now, what do you say you hop in the shower? Daddy's got to call and check on some work stuff." I don't say 'work people' but it is what I mean. So far, this is the longest we've been apart, aside from our time separated from one another. I wonder if they feel as incomplete as I do, without them.

I call them all in quick succession. My body winces at strange moments - hitting buttons on my phone, sends twinges of pain through my arm. It surprises me when I only manage to reach Emily, and even then, after several attempts at contact.

Once we get past the awkward silence at Emily's assertion that she is fine, I ask her why no one is picking up.

"Well, I can't speak for them, but I honestly forgot I had a phone for a while…" she laughs but it sounds brittle at the edges. "It's hard getting used to things. Is it for you?"

"It is," I confirm, and listen as the water turns off in the bathroom. "But Jack keeps me pretty engaged in what's going on, so that's helpful."

"Right," she says, and there is a note of wistfulness in her voice. "When do you think you'll want us back in the office?" she asks.

"We're going to have to be evaluated first. Let's let the dust settle a little before we jump back into office life…" I urge. "You'll call if you need anything?"

"Absolutely," she says, and it's the strength in her affirmative that makes it clear that Emily is lying.

* * *

><p>By the time I hang up the phone and make my way down the hall to Jack's room, I find him in his pajamas, his hair still wet, reading a book. In the time it has taken me to disappear and return, my son has graduated from Judy Blume to a more ominous and far larger book. My guess? It exceeds 300 pages. It is so big that Jack can't hold it up, but instead lays it across his lap and flips pages that way.<p>

"What are you reading?" I ask and Jack glances up, his expression guarded.

"Just a book," he says," biting his lip.

I sit beside him and tip it upright, studying the cover. It doesn't escape me that the name of the series is The Missing. The name Haddix jumps off the cover. It is one I've never heard of. I refrain from asking if the book is too scary. Instead, I ask what it's about. Jack's summary simultaneously surprises me and makes my head spin. It's a strange mix of supernatural and historical fiction "Why is it called The Missing series?" I wonder aloud.

"Because a bunch of people on a plane disappear…just babies come back in their place. I couldn't find anything about disappearing off a ship… This one was closest," he says, shrugging. "But I watched the news to see in case they found that ship you guys were on, with babies on it instead of adults… They didn't," he adds seriously.

"I see," I say, although I don't. The talk of planes and ships and babies and adoption and history is too much.

"Can Paul come over now that you're back? Jessica kept saying no…"

The name sounds vaguely familiar. Suddenly, I know why. "Paul, who's been mean to you?" I question.

Jack sighs. "Daddy, he _hasn't _been mean to me. You're making stuff up in your mind," he accuses, his eyes dark and angry.

"Oh, really?" I ask, trying to keep my tone easy, but failing.

"You keep checking things and you stand in front of the refrigerator with the door open. Now you're just making stuff up because you don't want me to have friends."

"Jack, I'm sorry if that's what it feels like. I'm sorry if my behavior's been a little strange, lately. It'll get better, I promise. How about if you invite Paul over to play after school tomorrow?" I ask, hoping my son accepts this olive branch.

"Are you gonna act normal?" he asks seriously.

"I'm going to try my best, but there are no guarantees," I tell him honestly. "How about this…I promise not to purposely do anything that embarrasses you…"

Jack's smile is slow. "Will you play Nerf guns with us?" he asks.

Now, I smile, too. "You bet," I say and tuck him in. I pause at the door, turning off his bedroom light and pulling the door closed.

"Dad? Can you leave the door open?"

And just like that I know that my son may be nearly seven, but he is still a little boy. I haven't missed as much of his life as I feared.


	17. Lies: Garcia

It has been totally weird being free enough to walk wherever I want. To eat whatever I want. It's when I decide to shower for the second time since I've been home, when all hell breaks loose. Actually, it isn't hell, but I'm pretty positive it scares me as much as hell would, at this point. Since I've basically lived in hell the past two months, I'm well-acquainted with what it's like.

I'm brushing my teeth, in the nude, when my handheld shower nozzle goes berserk. It falls from its secure little perch and sprays everywhere, scaring the crap out of me. I don't even have the presence of mind to turn the water off, I just jerk the curtain closed.

My face and hair are wet and I am freezing thanks to my new appreciation for wearing as few clothes as possible. I can't even finish brushing my teeth, my heart is in my throat. I peek in once, and see it spraying from both sides. The nozzle, where it should be, and the opposite direction, near where the showerhead attaches to the hose. I'm wetter than before. I pull the curtain closed again, unwilling to face the crazy outflow of water. My purple fuzzy bathmat is saturated. There is water all over the floor. It's still wet after I wipe it with a towel, and I glance up. It drips from my ceiling like a tiny rain shower.

I know I should call the super, but I am too embarrassed. Besides, I can't have anybody here. At least, people I don't know well. Kevin has kept up with my rent and utilities, bless him, so that I still have a place to stay. I feel hugely indebted to him. So, Kevin's out. I call my super anyway, because it's technically his job to fix apartment repairs, but the line is busy. I hang up and call Morgan.

"Hey, Garcia. What's up?" he asks, sounding too serious, and not like Morgan. The truth is, we haven't spoken much. Even on our pirate-filled Seychelles trip, Morgan gravitated more toward JJ when it came to do the protecting. Actually, come to think of it, she protected him. I keep meaning to thank her for that. Anyway. It doesn't matter. I have a shower emergency.

"What does it mean when there's water, gushing backward out of my showerhead?" I ask, willing my voice not to shake.

"Means you need a new showerhead, baby girl. Where's your super? He's supposed to take care of that for you."

"I called. His line's busy." I say softly.

"Let me get some stuff and I'll be there," he promises.

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, Derek's in my apartment, in blue jeans and a white tee shirt so old it looks like it could fall off his body at any moment. Still, he looks amazing. And, bonus? He has tools.<p>

This is the first thing that makes me feel remotely normal. For Derek, I managed to wrap a robe around myself and I watch him unapologetically from the living room.

"Jesus Christ, Garcia! You didn't turn the water off?" he snaps, but he's only a little angry. I can tell because his eyes are flashing but the corners of his mouth are twitching a little. His shirt is wet now and I hope he'll take it off. That would make this nightmare a lot more bearable.

"Didn't want to risk it…plus, it's much better watching you work when you're all wet like this…" I smile, and type in my password, attempting to wade through the million or so E-mails I have accumulated since I've been gone. I delete the spam, and am still left with a ridiculous number. Hotch calls, and I press the ignore button. I have Morgan. I'm okay. When he finally does take the shirt off, I sneak it away and excuse myself, telling him I'll be right back. I take my laundry soap and a few quarters. I stay long enough to move it from a washing machine to a dryer and then I return.

"You know, I'm technically not supposed to be doin' this? It ain't my job, so when the dude _does _come by and asks who installed the sweet ass system in your bathroom and replaced your worn out hose and cracked showerhead, what you gonna say?"

"Not a thing," I promise. "Your secret's safe with me.

He turns and smiles at me. My racing heart slows to a gallop.

I work in silence, deleting and reading, while Derek swears softly to himself while he replaces parts, tests the water flow, and completely removes any evidence of my ancient shower system.

When he asks for a step ladder, and caulk, I oblige. I grew up with four brothers. It would be silly not to have such necessities on hand. But when Derek's on the ladder, I can't focus. The sight of him on the ladder, stretching and bending is too captivating to glance away from.

"You're gorgeous…" I breathe.

He bites his lip, the first evidence of self-consciousness I have seen. He doesn't say anything back.

"Hey, are you okay?" I ask.

"No," he replies, matter of fact. "Are _you_?"

"No," I admit. "I guess not. I guess it's just easier to pretend."

He steps down off the ladder and gathers up spare parts and paper towels. It's been the best hour and a half I've spent since we first set sail on our great adventure. I hand him the shirt I've retrieved from the second floor laundry room. He takes it, and breathes in, nodding his thanks.

"Can you stay?" I ask. "Please?"

"Nah, I can't. My mama, Sarah and Desiree are camped out at my place and they're not leavin' 'til they're convinced I'm okay." He pauses long enough to toss paper towels and tuck odd leftover washers into his pocket.

"Well, thank you for this. I'll think of you every time I take a shower," I tell him with a straight face.

Lucky for me, he gets the humor. He smirks.

He lets me hug him goodbye.


	18. X Marks The Spot: Morgan

I get back home later than I plan to. I get distracted by little things. A coffee shop. The sight of two folks holding hands and walking outdoors. They don't have a care in the world. Watching them simultaneously makes me sad and pisses me off. Sad because they don't have a clue how lucky they are…and pissed because they are so clueless.

I haven't been that happy since I was nine years old. First, there was my father's death. Then, there was Carl. After that, my cousin disappeared. I've known, since I was a kid, that this world ain't a safe place to be…yet we were still taken. Didn't matter how much combined knowledge my team had about criminal behavior. Didn't matter how much knowledge Rossi had about expensive yachts and sailing. Somewhere along the way, we were still targeted.

It just reinforces what I've known all along, and it puts my protective instinct into overdrive. In that second, I put the car in gear and get my ass home. My mother and sisters are there, and what kind of man am I to leave them home, unprotected? Yes, Garcia needed me, but I've been out of Garcia's for a good while.

When I arrive home, they're frantic.

"My God, Derek! Where were you?"

"I'm fine, Mama…" I reassure. "I just stopped off at Garcia's. She needed me to take a look at somethin'."

"You can't just go off without telling one of us…" Desiree admonishes, like I'm still some kid.

I'm about to go off on her, but I don't say as much. Just stand there with my arms crossed and wait 'til they're done.

"Jesus, Derek… We've all got Post-Traumatic Stress from this thing and you just disappear and don't say a damn word to us?" Sarah exclaims. She has always matched me with her quick temper. "Mama barely slept….I still can't handle hearing the phone ring… Desiree loses it in the grocery aisles because that's what she was doing when we heard you went missing!"

"What do you think _I _got?" I yell, glowering at her. "You think it was easy for _me_? I went through sixty days of hell! Just get the hell out I don't need y'all here…" I insist, going to my bedroom and slamming the door.

My room looks like I never left. Scratch that, it looks like three ladies were here in my absence and tried to organize things. My bed's made. There is no pile of clothes near the hamper. The stacks of papers and folders beside my bed have been filed somewhere. I only hope that when the time comes where I need them, I'll actually be able to locate them.

I want my family gone, but the truth is, of course I need them here. Without them, I'll be lost.

But I can't face them now. It's too much. I can't handle their baggage and my own, too. I check my messages and see a missed call from Hotch. There is no message, so it must not have been important. Still, I can't help wishing we were together. It feels wrong not to have them around me. It feels wrong that, instead, my family's here, sharing their sorrow. When all I need is quiet. When all I want is to sit beside someone who knows exactly what I went through and doesn't need to discuss it.

It hits me that I had that. At Garcia's. She was with me then, and we didn't talk about any of it. I was at peace there. There was no pressure. No worrying about how she's gonna feel if I say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing.

It takes a minute before I realize that I'm not alone in the room. I wonder how I missed Clooney's big ass, sprawled across the bed. It's taken him a while to get used to me being here again. Taken him a while to let me approach him. This has marked me and he can smell it. I extend my hand and he sniffs it. Then, he licks me.

"Hey," I say quietly, my heart rate slowing down. I sit down on the bed and he shifts, so his large head is in my lap. I take a closer look at him. His brown and white fur is turning gray in places. He's started to move slower. I wonder why it has taken all this for me to notice that Clooney isn't in the best shape. Well, neither am I, so I guess that makes us an okay team. I scratch him behind the ears.

I try to speak, but I can't. I hear my mama and my sisters in my living room. They're putting on coffee and watching the evening news. I don't know why. If they're so traumatized, why would they want to see the countless ways the world is falling apart? I wonder where they'll sleep? How long they've been here in my absence? It never occurred to me that anyone would be living at my place while I was away, but I'm glad they have been. Without them, I wouldn't have a place to come back to.

I think about calling Hotch back. Or Garcia or anybody, but I can't do it. They all got things of their own to worry about. Hotch has Jack, JJ's got Henry, and the others…well…I'm pretty sure they don't want to be bothered. It's not like I'd be able to say anything to them anyway. And who'd want to sit on the phone and listen to a bunch of dead air.

Clooney breathes heavily. Snorts. He's sleeping on his back and every once in a while, his legs twitch. He's dreaming. He's running. He's everything I'm not.

"X marks the spot, doesn't it, buddy?" I murmur. And I hope that whatever Clooney can sense that's different about me will fade. I want more than anything to be the same as before all this happened, but I know that's not possible.

I don't have to think for too long before I start to count all the ways this has changed me.


	19. Blame: Rossi

I ignore everything and everyone. I put my phone on silent and sink back into my bed. God, I've missed my bed. I've missed living in the lap of luxury, and part of me is still missing my yacht, _Carolyn,_ which was destroyed beyond repair when those bastards took us. But at least I have things the way I like them here. Mudgie's around somewhere. Crazy out of his mind since I've been back. He hasn't left my side. Two months have made little difference to him.

I sit down on the couch in my den and try to watch some television. My TiVo is full of documentaries from the history channel, reruns of Bonanza and John Wayne movies. Somehow, none of these strike my fancy. Instead, I find myself perusing Netflix, with Mudgie breathing in my face. I select a show I haven't seen that seems interesting enough to hold my attention. I remember when it premiered about a decade back, when I thought it was ridiculous, based on principle. Now, I play it and I'm transfixed. It's like that Tom Hanks movie where his plane crashes and he's trapped on that island only better. There are more people, for one thing, and even though I can't take it seriously, I can't stop watching. It's like a collision.

The doctor saves lives and the ex-con - I know she is based on her tells - stitches him up with black thread. There is too much pointless exposition and too much blinding beauty. I find myself subconsciously comparing every aspect of their island to ours. Plus, on this show, when people die, they stay dead. There are no miraculous days when a loved one reappears. Only crazy people and zoo animals in a jungle.

I lose myself in the show because it's easier than facing what I think about the other twenty-three hours out of the day. That, if not for me, we wouldn't have been in that predicament in the first place. If I had just done what I knew to be right in the first place, we would have never been taken.

The blame is mine, and I accept it. Even though I know Aaron would tell me it's not my fault. Even though the rest of the team would tell me it might have happened anyway. The truth is, it would not have happened if I was careful. It would not have happened if I hadn't had such grandiose plans for what our vacation should have looked like. Now, we have all lost two months of our lives that we can never get back. Aaron and JJ's boys have grown up. Everyone's families have been through hell. _We_ have been through hell. And it's all on me. I try to lose myself in the show again, but it does nothing for me. All I see are reminders of what we went through in the most innocuous things: the water. The people with injuries. The character who gets high.

I wonder what the rest of the team is up to, but the truth is, I don't really want to know. I can't face them. Aaron calls and I reject it. I watch hours of television, and read the newspaper and avoid any headlines with the words _rescue_ or _yacht_ or _pirates_ or _FBI. _JJ gave the initial press conference but it isn't enough. Anderson Cooper has caught wind of what is going on. He wants to do an interview with us. I don't want to do an interview with him. I hope the rest don't either.

I try to think about anything else to occupy myself. What can I do? I could go to church, but that would be inviting questions. Then again, anywhere I go would be inviting questions. I can't go out for a damn cup of coffee without people staring. I know, because I tried yesterday. It's not that I mind the being noticed so much. It comes with the territory, being a well-known author. It's that, I don't want attention for this. Without me, there would have been no _this_. It would have been a regular vacation. Us with our families or pets or friends. Us at barbecues or wine tastings or out on dates. But instead, we are what happened to us. We are the seven people who were taken over by modern-day pirates, and there is nothing I can do to negate that. No matter how much I want to.

The guilt eats away at me like a living thing. All the rationales in the world don't seem to matter. Yes, we all came back alive and relatively unharmed, but that could have easily changed. Now, instead of having nightmares of three children waking up to find their parents murdered, I dream of this. I dream of fighting back and it not being enough. I dream of dropping anchor. The worst decision I have ever made.

I can't do anything else, so I return to the bedroom, with Mudgie at my heels. I don't have the heart to shut him out so I let him come in with me. He's company, if nothing else. I close the blinds. I block out all the light. I try to sleep and I can't. I don't even come close. Instead, my mind and my heart race. Where I used to feel naked without my gun, I now feel naked without my team. But they wouldn't want to hear from me.

That's what I think, anyway, until there's a knock at my door. If it's press, I'm not sure what I'll do. I look at the monitor of my home security system and see Reid standing on the steps.

He's pressing my doorbell repeatedly. As if it isn't after midnight. As if the last sixty days didn't happen. As if everything is blessedly, blissfully normal. Slowly, I pull the door open.

"What is it, Reid?" I ask, giving him the same normalcy he has given me.

I stand and wait for him to respond.


	20. Illogical: Reid

When Rossi asks me what it is - why I'm standing at the door of his mansion in the middle of the night - I don't know what to say. Except that I haven't been able to get a proper night's sleep since I've been home. Except that, it feels strange to call anyone. It feels stranger, still, to be without them.

December 23, 2011 remains etched on my memory, even more clearly than the day we were rescued - February 21, 2012. By the time this happens, things have changed. We have missed Christmas and New Year's and Valentine's Day. I suppose it's a small miracle our vacation didn't fall in the middle of October - that I didn't miss Halloween instead - that would be impossible to move on from.

I've visited my mother. The staff wisely chose not to inform her of my whereabouts these past two months. She was calm, if confused at why she hadn't received any letters from me recently. I apologized profusely and stayed several hours, visiting with her, though it was hard to talk around what I had been through. When she commented at how thin I'd become I didn't say anything about it directly. I only promised to eat more.

"Reid?" Rossi asks, and I blink.

"Did you know that JJ agreed to do an interview with Anderson Cooper about our time in captivity?" I blurt. She promised me to keep it quiet and I fully intended to. It's just that my entire world is on its axis now, and nothing makes sense.

Rossi presses his mouth into a thin line. "Wanna come in, kid? I can make you spaghetti."

"It's after midnight," I object, but he waves off the observation like it's nothing more than a pesky mosquito.

"It's never too late for pasta…" he says. "Besides, you look like you need it."

"Have you been talking to my mother?" I joke. I follow him through the opulent house and I am accosted by a giant black lab.

I freeze and he licks more vigorously. I wonder if he can taste my trauma…my sadness…

"Mudgie! Down! Sorry about that…He's more friendly than usual since I've been back…" Rossi sighs, apologetic. He sets a pot of water on the stove to boil. "If I missed one thing on that damn island it was real Italian spaghetti…" he muses.

I don't respond, looking at the warm yellows and reds on his kitchen walls. I think that if his house were like my own - with a blue or green color scheme - perhaps he wouldn't be so hungry all the time. When the silence only grows, Rossi continues talking.

"You ever seen LOST?" he asks.

"I'm sorry?" I ask, wondering what he managed to lose in two days. I have begun sleeping with my dearest possessions in my pockets or within arm's reach. That way, if something should happen, I won't be without them.

"The TV show…" Rossi continues, with his back to me. Come to think of it, hasn't yet looked me in the eye.

"I don't watch television unless I have to," I tell him honestly.

I sit quietly and pet his hyper dog while Rossi hums and adds things to the sauce on the stove. I let him cook. I'm thinking.

"Rossi…are things difficult for you?" I ask carefully. I don't know how else to word the question in order to find out what I really want to know.

"Of course. I'm human, aren't I?" he asks. I'm pretty sure this is rhetorical, but time around the pirates and their broken English, and being deathly ill has dulled my already faulty ability to interact socially.

"Yes," I answer. "So…are you worried about what JJ will say in the interview?" I press.

"JJ can handle herself," Rossi insists.

"You _blame_ yourself," I say softly, the clues in the puzzle of his behavior coming together. "Rossi, you don't have to. Who's to say, if we would have docked that they wouldn't have jumped on board then, anyway?" I ask.

"Not reassuring, kiddo," Rossi says, sounding sad.

"Blaming yourself is completely natural in this circumstance. Unfortunately, it's also completely detrimental. Everything already happened. There's nothing any of us can do differently, as much as we might want to. All we can do is move on, and be grateful that we're back, and in one piece."

"Are we?" he asks, stirring pots at the stove. "In one piece?"

"Well, technically, we're _seven_," I edit. "But we're like a basic fraction. We're seven pieces of a whole. Seven sevenths, if you will. While we're changed, at our essence - our most basic level - we're still seven individuals who fit together to make one unit. One team."

It's quiet while he cooks and while I'm itching to explore the volumes of books I expect to discover in Rossi's library, I stay close. When he sets the food down on the kitchen island, I inhale deeply. I have nearly forgotten what authentic spaghetti smells like.

"I guess that's what this part's all about," Rossi comments, twirling pasta onto his fork and taking a bite. "We need to get together again. That's our goal," he says. There is a light in his eyes that hasn't been there in quite sometime.

"Excuse me?" I ask, speaking around a mouthful of noodles and sauce. My mother will be so pleased that I'm eating a second dinner tonight. I shake my head. My thoughts are so scattered lately.

"Reid, focus. Between you and me, we've gotta get the team together again. Not for work, just for camaraderie. Got it? So, I'll take Hotch and Prentiss. You wanna take Morgan, Garcia and JJ?" he asks. I'm not sure if this is rhetorical, too.

"Sure…" I reply, uncertain. Garcia and JJ shouldn't be a problem. I have at least heard from them in the recent days. Morgan has been as elusive as a shadow.

Getting us together again won't be easy, but I am up for the challenge.


	21. Anniversary: JJ

I sit nervously on the set of the morning television show. For a moment, I'm glad I won't be interviewed by any of the greats - Barbara and Oprah come to mind - who would, no doubt, find a way to bring me to tears. Anderson has given me his word that he won't do that. No waterworks questions. Nothing unplanned. We go over the interview as a lawyer would go over testimony. There will be no surprises and I'm grateful for that. Though I am ill at ease, this set and this show in particular, bring me back to a time when morning talk shows were simple and honest. There are no egos here. We are just two people having a conversation.

Still, it's nerve-wracking, even though I have done this kind of thing for years. I feel exposed without a podium to stand behind. I feel vulnerable being seated. I plant my feet into the carpet on stage, and rotate my wrists slightly, to remind myself I am bound in any way. No chains or ropes. Anderson tells me I am free to decline answering anything I am not comfortable with. That I am free to get up at any time. He has promised not to air any footage of me in captivity during the interview. The best part is that he volunteered all of this himself. I never had to ask for it. Just knowing I have options is a great relief.

Henry is playing backstage in the green room, since Will is away working a case. Henry likes seeing my face on the screen, so I smile. I want him to feel at ease. It's August, 2012. We have been free for six months. We were captive for only a third of that time, and yet, it still feels like yesterday.

The light on the camera flashes red and I sit up a little straighter. I dressed carefully - blue would be too sympathetic, but red, too brazen. Instead, I chose a deep purple shirt and black dress pants. Minimal jewelry. I've grown bangs specifically to cover the scar on my forehead, despite my twelve-year-old niece admonishing me that no one wears bangs anymore, except toddlers.

"And, we're back, with Jennifer Jareau," Anderson says, without preamble. "Welcome," he says. I'm grateful for this. All the extra editing will be done post-episode, with a video package and voice-over about our ordeal.

"Thank you," I respond automatically.

"It's been six months. How are you doing?" he asks, keeping the questions short and to the point, as he promised. But there is an undercurrent of gentleness and support in his tone that I appreciate.

"I'm doing pretty well," I tell him, smiling reflexively. "Back at work…"

"Really? So soon?" he asks.

"Yeah. Unfortunately, the whole mess actually occurred during our vacation time and obviously lasted longer than our planned week. The FBI needs us back and we need to _be _back. So, it's a good balance," I say, starting to relax into the rhythm of the questions.

"Do you want to talk about what captivity was like for you? I was told to ask you this question, but it's up to you," he says, looking me in the eye.

"Sure, I can talk about it," I agree, but I am instinctively careful. "It was sudden. One minute we were asleep and the next, all these men were on board. My team and I did our best to fight them off, but they had weapons and experience on their side. We weren't armed in any way. My hands were bound and the other end of the rope was attached to the boat. They dragged me for quite sometime. Until I wasn't able to surface for air. When I regained consciousness, I was on… It was this tiny little boat, like a raft…with one of the men. I wanted to get back to my team, but he told me they had been killed. I was the only survivor."

Anderson interjects gently. "That must have been very hard for you."

I nod. "Yes, it was, but I had to survive. So, I did what they told me. I got on the radio and passed along their demands. When they filmed me and gave me lines to say, I said them. I did exactly as they said. It wasn't until the very end that we were all reunited. Turns out, they were all told I had drowned. They were mourning me, and I was grieving for them, but as it turned out…none of us were really gone."

"It sounds nothing short of miraculous," Anderson comments.

He doesn't ask any probing questions about my explanation of how captivity was for me. Instead, he asks how it's been since I've been home.

"An adjustment," I admit, laughing a little. "It's definitely been an adjustment. The free world is so much different than the one we lived in. It took a long time for me to get my stamina up again, because I spent so much time sitting and just not doing a whole lot. Thankfully, I'm back in shape now, though, and so is my team, for the most part."

"Your families must be so grateful to have you home."

I have asked him not to mention Henry - not to mention Jack - or any family members by name. He has honored that, and I am grateful. When Anderson brings out the surprise guest, it isn't a surprise. He arranged for us to meet briefly backstage. I know it's one of the Seals who rescued us.

"We owe you our lives," I tell him quietly, as I stand on my toes to embrace him.

Afterward, I get rid of any evidence I have been crying. I find Henry in the green room, playing with toys. I take a moment and just stare at him. I can't believe my baby is almost four.

"Are you done now?" Henry asks glancing up and launching himself at me.

"You bet. I'm done," I say and smile. "Let's go home."


	22. Dreaming: Emily

When Rossi calls me the same day JJ gives her morning talk show interview and insists that I come dressed in my Christmas best, I don't understand. Since JJ requested the day off, Hotch made an executive decision and had us all take a day off as well. I wonder now, if he knew something we weren't privy to. Needless to say, I am looking forward to doing nothing but kicking back on the couch with a bottle of wine tonight. When I balk and Rossi rants that he has been trying to get us together for six damn months and the least I can do is get myself to his house at five o'clock, I agree. When I walk into his mansion, I am stunned.

Lights are strung everywhere. Holiday music is playing and the house smells delicious. I slowly take in everything. When I realize I am standing directly under the mistletoe, I dart out of the way before anyone can spot me.

It's too late.

"Christmas hugs!" Garcia calls, enveloping me in her arms. She is wearing her antler headband, her favorite red dress, and candy cane striped stockings. Suddenly, I realize that Rossi was totally serious about dressing up. I feel bad that I showed up in my gray tee shirt and jeans that I wear strictly on fat days.

"Seriously? It's August. Who didn't get the memo that this is either very late or very early?" I complain, but smile.

"Apparently, it's a time warp…" JJ says, walking up with a tray of meats and cheeses that look amazing. I take one of everything.

"It is," Reid insists. "It's actually Christmas Eve of 2011...the way it should have been. We had the holidays with our families before we left, but we never got to have the office party.

If I close my eyes, I vaguely recall last year's party. It was held at Garcia's tiny apartment, with our BAU team, plus Kevin, Will, Henry and Jack. It had been crowded and wonderful, exchanging gag gifts and watching the little boys enjoy their real presents. It was the first time we'd all seen JJ in three months.

I feel even less prepared when I realize I haven't brought gifts for anyone. "I'm sorry, Rossi, I didn't think you were serious," I tell him apologetically. "I don't have anything."

"Woman, did you miss the giant stack of stuff in the living room?" Derek asks, walking by and wrapping an arm around my waist.

Normally, I would push him away, but I don't mind this. While I would never want to go back and relive our time in the caves, I miss the closeness we shared then. In six months, I have healed quite a bit. The bruises are gone. I'm physically fit. Mentally stable. But I cannot shake the nightmares that plague me. And even after all this time, I cannot sleep, if I'm not curled in a nest of blankets with Sergio beside me, and a light on somewhere.

I smell French toast baking and I'm confused. "I thought this was Christmas _Eve_. Shouldn't we be having dinner?" I ask, a little irritated. I walk into the kitchen and try in vain to get Rossi or Garcia to glance in my direction, but they are too busy singing _We Need a Little Christmas_. Well, Garcia's singing. Rossi's humming.

"We had it last year," JJ fills in. "Garcia suggested it, since it was a good memory and she wanted to hold onto it…and I hear Rossi's adding…embellishments or something?" she asks. "I don't know what they are, but I saw ice cream in the freezer," she smiles.

"Did you see wine?" I ask. "Because I seriously need some."

JJ is distracted by Hotch, who asks her how her interview went. She says it went just fine. Deciding it'll just be easier to go with the changing flow of conversations I interject a question of my own, directed at them both.

"So, where are the boys tonight?" I ask, remembering how both of them came to last year's festivities.

"Will's got Henry…" JJ says at the same moment as Hotch says, "Beth has Jack."

"Beth, huh?" I ask, smirking. "Are things getting serious?"

"Nowhere close," Hotch says. Even so, his eyes shine and he smiles. It's good to see him smiling.

"Did you know that though French toast is thought to have originated in medieval times when European cooks who needed to use every morsel of bread they could to feed their families, in actuality, recipes for French toast can be traced all the way back to ancient Roman times, under the name, Roman bread…" Reid insists, injecting himself, albeit late, into my conversation with JJ about tonight's menu.

"Yeah, I think you mentioned that last year, Spence," JJ teases.

"I did?" he wonders, looking confused. "I was sure this would be new information…"

"She's kidding," I tell him, before he stresses himself out.

"How are you guys?" I ask, keeping my voice down. With Garcia's sweet soprano as background music, I find it's easier to broach the subject. I don't particularly want to share about myself, but I do want to know how my team is. It's important that all of us are healing. It's important that we all have a safe space to discuss things, if we choose to. I'm not partial to shrinks, but I don't mind if it comes up naturally in conversation, with the people who were there with me. At least, with this issue, I have others to discuss it with. My time in hiding was much more isolating. I had barely begun to get over that before December happened. The stress of the two events weighs heavily on me most days, which is why a night like this comes as such a welcome relief.

"Better now that we're together…" Reid admits and JJ nods in agreement.

We burst out laughing as Garcia seamlessly transitions from _We Need a Little Christmas_ into Mariah Carey's hit, _All I Want for Christmas Is You_. She is dancing through all of us with a small glass saltshaker of jingle bells. It's labeled with a paper tag, but I can't read it while she's shaking it over our heads.

"What is that?" I ask, laughing.

"Christmas spirit," she says, and dances away, to sprinkle Hotch.

**A/N: Six chapters left! All will focus on the August Christmas extravaganza! If you are interested in reading about last year's BAU Christmas party, check out "Coming Home," which won 3****rd**** Place for Best Team Fic in the 2010 CM Fanfic Awards.**


	23. Understanding: Hotch

Our healing hasn't happened all at once, and it is far from over. When Garcia shakes a small item over my head, I school my face to show no emotion. It's only when she has moved on to JJ that I realize it's jingle bells in a small glass shaker. Garcia looks at me strangely, and then her expression softens.

"It's only Christmas spirit, sir," she says softly. "But I should have warned you. I'm sorry," she apologizes.

"It's all right," I tell her, trying to relax.

I can't help but remember the night a few days after I'd returned home. I'd told Jack he could invite Paul over. Jack asked if I'd play Nerf guns with them, but only if I promised to behave normally. However, I wasn't counting on the reaction I would have when Jack and Paul aimed their water guns at me and Paul screamed, "We got you! You're dead!"

I did exactly what I promised Jack I wouldn't do. I confiscated the toys. I snapped at them, saying that, in this house, we don't point guns at people and we don't say they're dead. Then I stared hard at Jack and told him that he ought to know better and that Paul needed to go home.

To distract myself, I take a glass of wine out on Dave's patio. I'm wishing for stars but there aren't any to see. So, I settle for staring at a large expanse of sky.

"Pretty out here, isn't it?"

I glance to my right. Garcia.

"Yes," I answer shortly. I hope she'll take the hint and leave me alone. I realize this is supposed to be a positive experience, but to turn these memories off… Well, it isn't like flipping a switch.

I regret over-reacting and sending Jack's friend home, and for putting undue pressure on my son. I remember the look in his eyes just before he turned and ran into the house. I remember trying to apologize, and Jack telling me angrily, in the way only a six-year-old could: "It's Nerf guns! What did you think we were gonna do?" in the moments before he burst into tears. I don't know if his words were meant in disrespect or to reassure me that they were just plastic. It has taken a long time to make up for losing my temper that day, and all of the subsequent times I have over-reacted. Honestly, I don't see these moments subsiding anytime soon.

"It's hard," she says simply and I nod my head in agreement. "Even though it's been all this time, it really doesn't seem like all that much has passed, does it?"

I shake my head.

"How's Jack?" she asks, and this time I turn to look at her.

"You'd know better than I would, unfortunately," I shrug. But I'm grateful that despite all the change, Garcia is still open to visiting with Jack once in a while. Figuring out what's on his mind. I never assumed that this one-time favor would evolve into what is essentially free lay-counseling by a trusted friend. "He's definitely frustrated with me. He doesn't understand, and why should he? He's not even seven yet."

Garcia shrugs a little, taking a sip of her own wine. "I don't know. He understands more than I thought he would. Last time he was here, we made this fantastic Lego pirate ship and he acted out the whole scenario - well, what _he_ thought it was, anyway - and I asked him questions. How did he feel when you were gone? How did he think _you _felt? That kind of thing…"

"What did he say?" I ask, not altogether sure I want to know the answer.

"He said…he felt like an orphan when you were gone because he had no parents…and he had no idea how you felt… So, we talked about it. I told him I felt sad and scared and he was surprised to hear that. He didn't think adults got scared. It seems to be a reoccurring theme with him. I reassured him that, unfortunately, we do get scared. He asked if that's why you'd been…well…out of sorts lately," Garcia looks apologetic.

I raise an eyebrow, silent.

"I said it probably was," she admitted. "I said we all need time and patience to figure out how to be with each other again, because we spent a long time apart. He seemed to get it, but was pretty quiet the rest of the time. I read aloud to him from that spooky book about disappearing children, too. He seems to really dig that book…" she shudders.

"Thank you for continuing to talk to him," I tell her sincerely.

"Of course. It's my pleasure, sir. He's a great kid." When Garcia smiles, it's genuine. It's something I appreciate. And, sir? Jack might not fully understand what you went through…but we _do_. Don't be afraid to lean on us… Don't be afraid to talk to us… It helps us as much as it helps you…"

I nod. "I wish I could be as open with Jack as you are. It would make things easier. But I honestly feel as though I'm out of my depth with him now. He's grown and changed, and I've changed…" I pause, taking a sip of wine.

"Change isn't all bad, though," Garcia points out. "Because now, we can appreciate how truly awesome the little things in our life really are. And the big things, too. Like Christmas in August, and six-year-olds, and friends who still drop everything to come and help you, even though they might be struggling as much as you are."

I'm the first to admit that I am not, by nature, a talkative person. I am, however, a listener. And I find that it helps beyond measure to listen to Garcia tonight. To not feel pressured to speak up or share. I lived my experience and I don't need to rehash it. But I do need a space to breathe. I need to know that myself and my son will be okay. Garcia and her inherent hope are able to give me those things without even trying.

Right now, I'm unable to think of suitable words, so I look her in the eye and thank her again.


	24. Joy: Garcia

When I convince Hotch to go back inside and get in on the French toast being made, it's a good thing. Because, seriously? When _isn't _making French toast sundaes a good alternative to reminiscing over things we can't change? I slide in not so subtlely between Em and Morgan. She is decking hers out with strawberries, peaches and blueberries. She drizzles honey on top. Morgan digs a giant scoop of ice cream out of the bucket and puts it on his. He covers it in maple syrup, chocolate syrup, whipped cream and brown sugar. In the spirit of Christmas, I stick to cinnamon and sugar…and ice cream. The cinnamon and sugar give the ice cream an extra delicious flavor.

Hotch is taking his French toast without any embellishments whatsoever, just butter and syrup. Rossi's got strawberries and whipped cream on his. Reid is creating some kind of structure out of his French toast with a space in the middle, which he is filling with various toppings. JJ has foregone French toast altogether, and is scooping a giant bowl of various ice creams and toppings. She takes a bite and groans in satisfaction.

I follow Morgan out to the dining room, because Rossi has insisted that no one eat outside the dining room. I take a giant bite of my French toast creation. Morgan stirs his around.

"Everything okay?" I ask and then feel silly. It's been six months. Nothing is okay yet.

But Morgan says "sure" like he expects me to believe him. He asks how my shower is working and I ignore the question. The blatant attempt to distract me from finding out how he is.

"Seriously?" I ask, a little hurt. I stab a piece of French toast to make me feel better. "You're seriously going to sit here and expect me to believe you're fine?"

"You asked," he says like that makes everything all right. "Of course I'm not fine. But you believe what you want."

"What is up with you? We were all in a rough situation for a while. It's totally understandable if you're not okay. But don't sit here and lie your pretty little face off around me. I don't appreciate it."

He sighs. "What do you want me to say, Garcia? My mother's breathing down my neck. Askin' how I'm doing all the damn time. I don't need y'all doing it, too. Already lost my head around her. Made her cry," he admits softly.

"Having a mother care about you is an amazing gift," I tell him quietly. Not to judge him or to make him feel bad, but to have him realize what a great thing he has before he pushes it away completely. I don't add that not all of us have that. I don't add that at least he had family who came to be with him when all this happened. I came home to a boyfriend, who wants, more than anything, to put a rock on my finger, now that we're home and safe. I just want stability. And sadly, for Kevin, stability for me doesn't look like marriage. It looks like each of us in our own little universe coming together every once in a while for a little romance and to make a little magic. I want things the same. But that makes life pretty lonely.

"Yeah, it is," Morgan echoes and I've almost forgotten what we were talking about.

My mind is filled with a million snapshots of my parents - who never knew I was missing - of Kevin and the life we will probably never have.

The sight of Emily getting tipsy and singing _Santa Baby_ snaps me out of my heavy thoughts.

It's crazy how one minute I can be fine, and boosting the morale of our fearless leader, and the next, I need my own morale boosted. Kevin told me he was planning on popping the question in March, but since we had just come home…since he had assumed I was dead…that had been put on the back burner. Now it's on the front burner, smoking up the whole place. Without warning I think of the youngest pirate with all his cohorts, fallen on the sand. If it's possible, my heart is heavier and sadder than it was to begin with.

"…Santa baby…I want a yacht and really that's not…a lot. I've been an angel all year. So hurry down the chimney tonight," Emily sings and weaves unsteadily on her feet. She stops suddenly and wrinkles her nose. "A yacht is the last thing I want, trust me…"

"Okay, I think we should say that Emily is officially cut off…" JJ jokes.

"It's Christmas and I can't be a little drunk?" Emily complains.

"You're a _lot_ drunk," JJ counters.

"Listen, Garcia," Morgan says, and he catches me by surprise. He's been quietly consuming his French toast. "I don't mean to be an ass…I just…I'm not sure how to be around people now…Clooney's the only one that really gets it."

I smile a little. "I just talked to Hotch about this… And, honey, I don't know if it's occurred to you, but we were all there, too. Your mom and your sisters weren't and there's no way for them or Kevin or anyone to really get it who wasn't there with us. But all of us here now totally understand. You can lean on us if you need to."

"Nah," he denies and tries to smile. "I just need you to keep on being yourself. Keep lifting our spirits and kicking our asses and don't ever change, all right? Promise?" he asks.

"You bet," I agree, leaning into him. "And you might not need to lean on me, but I totally might need to lean on you. Is that okay?" I ask, and I hope he knows this question is rhetorical.

Instead of answering, he takes cues from Emily. "Some…times in our life. We all have pain… We all have sorrow…" he sings and the pain on his face transforms. I've forgotten somehow that in some of our more desperate states of boredom, we sang. We weren't all good. Morgan, God love him, is tone deaf, but I don't have the heart to tell him.

I let him sing. I want to see the light in his eyes again.


	25. Yuletide: Morgan

**A/N: This will be the last chapter. I know I promised a few more, but this one naturally came to a nice end, and I didn't feel the need to keep it going. Sometimes less is more. Thank you to everyone else who has taken the time to read and review, or just favorite, alert, etc. Special thanks go out to: Aradatm, BrandSpankingNew, crazyobsession101, jenny crum, KazyCMfan, kdzl, scadki, Tara621, twilightfan888 and whimsical-one-ga for your reviews. Finally, I'd like to say Merry Christmas to my sister, Tara621, who requested this story as her Christmas gift. So sorry it's taken so long, but I hope it was worth it! Thank you for the inspiration for this story and your constant encouragement to finish it.**

After I sing, somehow, I feel a little better.

Now that Emily is sitting on her ass and not occupying the space beneath the mistletoe, I pull Garcia gently to her feet and lead her to the kitchen to stand beneath it. I stare into her eyes and ignore the hoots and hollers around us. JJ, Emily and Rossi are having a field day with this. I kiss her gently on the cheek and then wrap my arms around her. She says she might need me, and I'm sure she needs me now. Because I need her. We stand there for a long moment, swaying to Bing Crosby in the background.

The next thing I know, _she _is leading _me_. We go to the next room, where no one is sitting and sit close together on the giant leather sofa.

"No matter what is going on between us," I tell her deliberately, "even if you're pissed at me or I'm bein' an ass, know that you can always count on me. You can always come to me if you need me. I'll always be here for you."

She swallows, and her eyes are a little misty. "Thanks," she says. "Same here."

"So," I say, waiting. "What do you need?"

"Oh, wow. Okay. Um… Right now, I need to know how you are," she says, turning the tables on me so quick I'm unsure how to react.

She waits.

"I…don't know how to do this," I admit. "I don't know how to go back to bein' the man I was before this happened. But I don't know how to be anybody else." I shrug. I'm not overly emotional, just telling her how it is. She asked, after all.

"Can I tell you something?" she asks.

"Of course."

"You might not like it."

"Go."

"I don't think we _can _go back to the people we were. I think who we are is constantly evolving and everything we go through changes us. It takes time to learn to live with that." She pauses, thinking. "It's easy for me to accept that you've changed, but it's hard to accept the same change in myself. I want to be the same person I was just like you do. I don't want to have days where I can't get out of bed, or where I want to pull away from everybody and everything. Or be the kind of crazy person who never wants to take another vacation because of what we've been through. But I have to integrate those pieces of myself somehow. It's a process and it sucks. It might take years. But I think we'll get there."

I sit quietly and listen. I wonder how she got so wise about all of this. I nod at her to keep going but she shakes her head.

"No, come on. What else?" I prompt.

"Nothing. That's it."

"Seriously?" I ask.

"Isn't it enough to know that things will get better someday?" she asks, swatting me with a pillow.

The laugh feels out of place, but it comes, just the same. I glance out the window and see the wind whipping about. The green grass. Proof that it's summer and that our Christmas celebration is out of place. But then I look again at my girl and her reindeer headband. Is it out of place if we want to feel it? If we want to embrace the feeling of closeness that exists in the winter months? Slowly, everyone else has filtered in to sit with us.

I put my arm around Garcia and she leans into me. "Sometimes I think about that first night…" I muse aloud. "I remember us trying to take them down. When JJ took the attention off me," I say, looking her in the eye. She looks at me, fearlessly, unashamed.

"I'd do it again," she says tipping her chin at me the way I do when I don't want someone's pity. There is a fire in her eyes that lets me know she is serious. That this isn't just a platitude she is speaking to make me feel better.

We sit together, not speaking, when the sky outside opens up. The rain comes down in sheets and I hold Garcia a little closer. I remember the storms we weathered in the Seychelles. Lightening flashes and thunder booms. She shivers a little. It takes me a second to realize what Garcia said was true. We're all feeling this. We're all changed by it. Even looking around the room, I can see it. Because six months ago, we'd all be sitting on our own little islands, talking about shit that didn't really matter. But now, we're all connected.

I'm holding onto Garcia and Emily's leaning against her leg. JJ's beside Emily, holding her hand. On JJ's other side is Hotch - his hand resting on her shoulder. Rossi's foot is nudged awkwardly next to Hotch and Reid is whispering to Rossi, his long-ass hair brushing Rossi's shoulder.

Gifts are forgotten and there's a mess in the kitchen. But Rossi leaves it be. Instead, we sit and talk. We instinctively ignore our phones and any other technology. JJ shares about her interview, about how difficult it is to readjust to life now. How much more difficult it is to be a parent to Henry when he as had two months of uninterrupted raising by Will. Hotch agrees. He doesn't say much, but he nods. In a silence, Rossi offers an apology that we quickly make him take back.

"This is totally not your fault," Emily drawls. They were assholes. _They_ took _us_ hostage, Rossi."

"See? I _told you_," Reid says, a little smug and a little triumphant. "No one is blaming you except you."

"No blaming yourself, Rossi. It's Christmas Eve," Garcia says, and I love her for it. "And if it helps. I'm instituting that it's Christmas every day, so you can live each day free of guilt."

He offers her a smile. It's weak, but it's there.

I look around at all of us, and it's clear we have a long way to go. None of us is fixed yet, but like Garcia said, it's okay. It's not really Christmas Eve, but that's not really what's important. What is important is that we've got each other's backs in the days to come. That no matter what, even when all hope seems lost, we never lose it completely.

Because if this has taught me anything, it's that nothing is as impossible as it seems. It's that, in this day and age, miracles can still happen. And that sometimes, that miracle is as simple as seven people sitting in a darkened living room together, finding the courage to take that next step.

It's us believing, in spite of everything, that light is just around the corner.


End file.
